Stubborn Survival
by CoffeeManiac
Summary: When Sam is kidnapped by something evil, he is forced to relive a childhood trauma and Dean is left to figure out what happened in order to rescue his brother.
1. Chapter 1

Stubborn Survival

Prologue-1997

John Winchester scrubbed a hand over his dark hair, carrying it across his stubbled face. He rubbed his eyes and gave himself a shake. Staring through the windshield into the dark was almost enough to make him fall asleep. He had had been awake, well he didn't know how long, but it had been days. He glanced at the driver, another hunter named Bobby Singer. John didn't know if he could call Bobby a friend because they argued constantly but John trusted him. He knew Bobby would be there if he needed him and John could trust him with his sons.

When John's youngest, fourteen year old Sam went missing, the first call John made was to Bobby. His older boy, Dean, was in Minnesota with Pastor Jim Murphy pouring over books about demons. Dean preferred to learn in the field but demons weren't something a person could figure out in the middle of an attack. John sent Dean to Jim for three weeks of learning about exorcisms and other useful tricks like using holy water and salt.

Sam should have gone too but he begged and pleaded to stay in the high school John had enrolled him in. Apparently they were doing some special testing that would ultimately help Sam get into college. John wasn't worried about Sam going to college because hunters weren't normally geared for higher learning. But, it was important to his youngest and John was busy hunting a local ghost so he agreed. Sam was old enough to stay alone and John figured putting the ghost down was a two, maybe three day job.

John never liked separating the family but sometimes it was necessary. Since Sam would be with John and Dean would be safe with Jim, it wasn't really a risk, just an inconvenience. Also, the boys had been fighting non-stop for months so a break for them was a break for him.

It all made perfect sense until Sam didn't come home from school. John didn't even know the boy was missing until the next morning when John rolled in after an all-nighter searching for the grave of Charles Glass.

Glass had been a pedophile in life, preferring to kidnap and molest young boys. After a few days of tormenting the children, he'd release them on a deserted highway. According to police records, he was active for about three years before was killed in a car accident. He had just dropped off a ten year old, pulled out on to a blind curve and was wiped out by an oncoming tractor trailer. The child was returned to his mother and Glass' body was released to family members.

John caught the hunt while doing some scans of local newspapers in northern Pennsylvania. He read about a boy from New Hope who claimed he had been kidnapped and kept in a house for a few days and then released. According to the newspaper the boy said he was held captive by a ghost. The kid was unwilling to give any details about what happened to him while he was there. The article suggested he was lying to hide something from his parents but, John kept checking and soon discovered there were several similar stories in the area.

Through research and legwork and some help from Sam, John was able to connect the whole thing back to Charles Glass. Apparently death had not stopped Glass from harming children. With two sons of his own, John took a particular interest in finding Glass' grave so he could burn the bastard out of existence.

Unfortunately, finding his remains became a challenge. It turned out that Glass was not his real name and his family had somehow managed to make his body disappear.

Sam was the first to question how the ghost could actually take children off the street. John figured he must have a human accomplice which was rare but not unheard of. Spirits often attached themselves to people or objects. In life, the police thought Glass might have had a partner but they had never been able to find one. It was creepily possible that the partner was still alive and assisting Glass in his vile hobby.

The night that Sam disappeared, John had finally found Glass' lair. Inside a small room built into the basement of an old house that Glass had used in life, John found Brian Kelso tied to a mattress. He had been naked, blindfolded and clearly abused. John rescued him without any interference from the perverted spirit.

He dropped the twelve year old off at a hospital and told the nurse to call the police. He had hated leaving the kid like that but knew that if he was going to find information about Glass, he needed to get back to the house without the police.

He spent the rest of the night searching the two story country mansion and then the grounds surrounding it. The spirit of Charles Glass attacked him repeatedly and John managed to repel him with iron shots. But, ultimately he failed to find Glass' remains so he failed to destroy him. The next step was going to be finding Glass' real name then his family because someone had to know where the body was located.

That morning John put his key in the motel door, exhausted, hungry and discouraged. He pushed it open and glanced at the bed where Sam should have been sleeping. Both beds were made and there were no dirty clothes on the floor. He looked towards the kitchen to find the remnants of the pizza he shared with Sam two nights before, along with the used paper plates, napkins, soda cans and beer bottles. Nothing had been cleaned up and nothing new had been used. Heart starting to pound he went in the bathroom to find clean towels, nothing wet, nothing on the floor.

The next few hours like the next few days moved in a blur. John called the school and was told his son had not come to class. He called Bobby Singer and Dean and Caleb but no one had heard from Sam. Dean said he was on his way and Bobby said the same thing. John told Dean to stay put and then had to tell Jim to keep Dean there. John was missing one son; he wasn't going to risk the other.

It took little time for John to land on the obvious. Somehow the spirit of Charles Glass had taken his youngest. A pedophile had taken Sam. John returned to the house where Brian Kelso had been held but found nothing new. He backtracked to where Kelso had been taken and even further to the boy before him. He had to find something, anything. He didn't believe in dead ends, there was always another play to make even when everything looked hopeless. He depended on that.

Bobby arrived late the first night and the two of them went back to the house again. Bobby didn't see anything that John might have missed. They kept looking, kept pushing. Days went by.

John tried to contact Glass through spells and séances while Bobby tried to ferret out Glass' family. If they could make a deal, trade Sam for a promise not to burn his bones, maybe Glass would give up Sam's location.

When Bobby finally figured out that Charles Glass was Charles Gleason and was buried in a family plot in upstate New York, they drove to the cemetery where John repeated the spells he had tried before. This time Charlie answered. With the grave dug up and the bones ready to be burned, the spirit was ready to deal. He said that Sam was in the attic of a lake cottage and gave John the address. John left Bobby to watch the grave.

The drive to the cottage was interminable and because it was dark and there were hundreds of houses on small, barely marked roads with addresses that didn't seem to follow any pattern, it took even longer. But, John finally found it. It was a three level lakeside summer home that dwarfed the two houses on either side of it.

John didn't bother to knock. He burst through the front door, running straight up the wooden staircase to the second floor. Halfway down the hall he found the trap door leading into the attic. If he doubted it before, he no longer questioned the likelihood of an accomplice. There was no way that a spirit, even a demented one like Charles Glass, could transport a child across miles of highway and secrete him in a locked cottage.

John pulled the door down releasing nested steps and climbed up. As soon as his head cleared the landing, he could hear Sam's voice.

"Not again, you bastard!" the boy yelled but his voice was strained.

John crossed the creaking wood floor to where his son lay on a thin mattress. His hands were tied to a stake driven into the wall above his head. His eyes were covered by bandages and then a crude blindfold made of rough linen. He was naked.

John knelt beside him, eyes blurry with tears.

"It's me, son. Dad. You're safe now."

John uncovered Sam's eyes first then cut the rope binding his wrists. Sam darted into his arms, sobbing like he hadn't done since he was a toddler. John held him and rocked him until he gained some control. Once Sam had calmed, John glanced around for clothes, finding his son's jeans and t-shirt piled up in a corner.

John retrieved them and told Sam to get dressed. Sam said nothing as he drew on his clothes.

"Are you hurt?" John asked.

Sam shook his head.

"Sammy, did he hurt you?"

"I'm okay, Dad," was the only answer he received.

"How'd they get you?" John asked.

Sam stared at him for a moment then shrugged. John let the question go.

"Let's get out of here. Your Uncle Bobby's waiting for us."

John led the way down the attic steps. He pushed the door back in place once Sam was safely with him.

John stopped for a moment to look at his son again. He had been terrified that he might never find him. Sam was a few inches shorter than John though that wasn't likely to remain true much longer. He was on the thin side but he was physically strong. He wore his hair too long which was probably a rebellion against John's Marine background. But, other than a bruise on his forehead and red rings around his wrists, he looked okay.

John sighed at his rambling thoughts reminding himself to stay focused. With the relief of finding his son exhaustion followed so it was no surprise that his thoughts were wandering. Even so, if Glass' partner decided to make an appearance or even Glass himself, John needed to be prepared. He took Sam's hand and could feel him trembling.

"Is there anyone else here?" John asked.

"I don't think so."

"Bobby is with the spirit at the cemetery."

"Spirit? Is that what it was?"

John glanced back at his son, surprised that Sam didn't know what had held him prisoner. The boy looked back at him, wide eyed and pale, but keeping up as they fled the house. They made it out of the house and into the car without trouble. John made sure Sam was settled into the passenger seat before he drove out on to the main road.

As he arrived at the cemetery he found things just the way he left them. Bobby was standing by the open grave with the decomposing body of Charles Gleason. Bobby had an iron rifle in one hand and matches in the other.

"Did you get him?" Bobby asked when he saw John then smiled when Sam stepped from behind his father. "Good to see you, son."

"Thanks," Sam said.

Sam looked around the cemetery with darting, fearful eyes.

"Do it," John said.

Bobby struck the match. Just as he dropped it, Charlie appeared with a roar. His spirit charged at John but before he could make impact his body started burning from the bottom up and he disintegrated with a scream.

John had shoved Sam behind him the minute the ghost appeared and now he turned and hugged him.

Sam allowed the comfort for a moment but then he pulled away just as he'd been doing for the last couple of years. John knew he was losing Sam but he didn't know how to stop it. He looked into his son's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"Not your fault," the boy replied. "I got caught."

John frowned a little at that. He'd need to make sure that Sam knew he wasn't to blame for getting kidnapped. He'd also have to work more on defensive maneuvers so that it didn't happen again.

"Where's Dean?" Sam asked.

"Still at Pastor Jim's," John answered. "He wanted to come back but I wouldn't let him."

Sam nodded at that before he turned to start walking towards the car. John watched his unsteady trek across the grass but figured the kid was understandably tired.

Bobby caught up with John, carrying the shovels and watching after Sam. John took half the load, grateful that Bobby had been ready to finish the job. Both men knew that no matter what promise they made to the spirit, there was no way they would let him continue to exist.

"Is the kid all right?" Bobby asked.

"I don't know. He's bruised up but nothing's broken. He's not saying much."

"Give him time, John. Did he say anything about Glass' partner?"

"Not yet. We can talk to him back at the motel. See if we can figure out who it is."

The drive was generally quiet. Bobby drove because John was exhausted. Sam sat silently in the back seat. When they pulled into the parking lot, Dean and Jim came out of the room. Jim apologized saying he couldn't keep Dean away.

Sam climbed out of the back of the Impala. Dean hugged him first then pushed him away to look at him. John didn't really listen to Dean's words. He noticed how Sam seemed to relax though, now that his brother was there. The boys went inside leaving the men to talk about the close call and what to do next.


	2. Chapter 2

Early 2007

Mark Foster occupied his off time with weight training in order to maintain a muscular and toned body. He demanded the same of his employees. Physical strength was essential to his position as well as his subordinates. With a cleanly shaven head and a single pirate earring to enhance his air of menace, Mark knew he looked exactly as he was expected to look.

Mark used his substantial strength and the assistance of George Bentley, the estate security director, to shove their latest victim into the mud room. With one hand clenched on to the back of his shirt collar and his other hand pressed into his back, Mark propelled him through the door.

The victim, dressed in a sweaty t-shirt and torn blue jeans towered over Mark by at least four inches. Still Mark controlled him. With arms bound behind him, no food for two days and a serious beating applied the day before, the victim was hobbled and disoriented. Mark had delivered the beating himself knowing how to make a point without causing permanent damage.

Mark and Bentley shoved the man to his knees driving a fist into his shoulder blades and ordering him to stay silent. The victim fell forward and Mark had to catch him by the hair to keep him from smashing his face on the cement floor. The young man winced at the rough treatment but didn't complain.

With a wave of his hand, Mark dismissed Bentley who nodded and left the room.

Richard Gleason appeared in the mud room with a crackle of energy that excited Mark each time it happened. Of average height and slender build, Gleason's most distinguishing feature was his iron straight hair hanging just above his shoulders. As always, he sank his hands deep into the front pockets of his tan slacks and rocked back just slightly.

"What's this?" Gleason asked, eyeing the man on the floor.

"He's not cooperating yet."

"You can't beat me into submission," the victim said, his voice pained.

"Of course we can," Gleason said before looking at Mark. "Take him out to the barn. Do what's necessary but do not break any bones."

The victim surged upward almost getting to his feet before Mark shoved him back down and kneed him in the back. This time Mark didn't catch him. The only thing that saved the man's face was a last minute twist of his body that sent him sprawling to his side. He curled his legs up with a gasp.

"Get up," Mark ordered, wanting to show Gleason that he was in charge and making progress.

"Bite me," the man said.

Mark kicked him in the stomach, once, twice and then again. Sam Winchester tried to roll away from the abuse but Mark kept punishing him until he finally lost consciousness.

Chapter 1

Sam woke to find his arms pulled over his head, suspended by shackles that bit into his wrists. People tended to underestimate how painful it was to support your own weight by your wrists, but Sam knew from experience that it was agonizing. His shoulder muscles, elbows, wrist joints stretched to near dislocation, lined up with the metal ripping up his skin and the pulsing ache through the rest of him.

He shivered as cool air breezed through the drafty barn. Dressed in only a white t-shirt and boxers that were not his, thank you very much, he tried to focus on his options. There weren't many.

With his toes dancing lightly against the wood floor, Sam hoped Dean would find him before things got worse.

The barn door creaked open and Sam shifted hopefully. He swallowed back his disappointment, hiding his reaction to seeing Mark Foster enter.

Sam ached pretty badly already from the last couple of beatings. He wasn't looking forward to another round. Given that he hadn't eaten in a long time, that his dry mouth and throat testified to some level of dehydration and generally injured overall, he wasn't sure how much his body could take before Mark killed him.

"You need to let go of who you were," Mark said, fingering a silver necklace that he wore. The charms were small and round, smaller than military dog tags and clicked together when Mark played with them.

"I need to let go?" Sam asked, pointedly. "Your boss is dead."

Mark reached, didn't even have to look first, for the stick that he left propped by the barn door. About four feet long and two inches round, it was knobbed, bent and gray. Sam guessed it came from one of the birch trees that surrounded the property. That stick took Sam down when it slammed into the back of his knees on his first day in this demented hell hole.

"You never talk about the boss," Mark said dangerously. "You do what you're told. You don't talk unless someone asks you a question. You don't complain."

In rapid succession, Mark wielded his stick like a baseball bat, slamming it against Sam's shins. Four strikes for four sentences. Sam gasped and blinked at the sudden tears of pain. His legs pounded in agony, his wrists joined in as he swung a foot back with every hit.

"Son of a bitch," he yelled.

Using adrenaline for fuel he drew his legs up then kicked out fast and hard but Mark danced back a step, avoiding him easily.

As soon as Sam dropped his legs, Mark came back, drawing the stick back and striking several more blows over the first ones. Before Sam finished yelling out in pain and anger, Mark landed several more strikes against his knees.

The pain radiated through Sam's legs like molten lava, burning and pulsing in waves. His nerves twitched under his skin. He drank in air, reaching beyond the pain, pulling strength in to muster enough energy for another kick. His timing and control were better this time and he managed to wrap his legs around Mark's torso. Mark twisted violently, getting his arm loose, the one with the stick, then beat at Sam's ankle until he had to let go.

Sam swung backward, preparing for another try when Mark drove the blunt end of the timber into his stomach. Sam gagged, bile filled his esophagus. He choked back the vile fluid but Mark didn't wait for him to recover. Mark beat his thighs next, striking viciously.

Mark stepped back, shaking out his arm and complaining about a cramp.

Sam swung slowly from the metal shackles.

"Stop," he said, breathlessly. "Just stop."

The sweat coating his body cooled in the chilly air. He shivered, closed his eyes and breathed slowly.

Too weak to lift his legs again, he didn't see the point anyway. He would have to endure the beating and escape later.

If Mark intended to kill him, there were easier ways and Gleason, dead as dead, didn't want Sam to have any broken bones; another good sign that he was supposed to survive.

Weakened by abuse and hunger, arms aching and legs screaming in pain, Sam needed to reach Mark Foster. He needed to force him to understand that Gleason was dead and that only his spirit remained to give orders. But, Mark didn't want to hear it. He wouldn't even permit Sam to mention Gleason's name.

"I know about ghosts," Sam said instead, his voice weaker than he expected. He cleared his throat. "They can seem alive. They can…"

Before Sam could finish, Mark swung the stick again, pummeling his shins. Sam cried out once then bit lip and closed his eyes. Dark swirled around him. It felt like his legs were on fire, or broken or both.

"Damn it," Sam whispered. "You're working for a monster."

Mark Foster was a monster too, the human kind, but still…

The shackles around Sam's wrists were attached to a metal plate suspended from a beam near the ceiling. The beam was suspended by a pulley and the rope that controlled the pulley was wound around a metal wheel at the midway point of a structural post.

Mark used the rope, squeaking against old metal, to lower Sam until his feet landed solidly and his knees bent. Sam tried to support his weight, needing to get the stress off his arms, but his damaged legs wouldn't hold him.

"Hanging like that can cause a lot of nerve and tendon damage," Mark said. "Best get your legs under you. You're going to be here awhile."

Mark turned away from him, propping the hated stick against the wall.

"Wait," Sam called while he scuttled his feet against the wood floor. Mark stopped at the door but didn't face him. "I…I need water."

"Maybe you'll earn it."

Sam cursed out loud. He hated asking the bastard for anything, and then to be denied…he cursed again.

Chapter 2

Mark meant it when he said "awhile." Sam counted two sunrises before his tormenter reappeared.

"Looking a little ragged," Mark commented.

Sam imagined he did. His bare legs were swollen, red and badly bruised. He had managed to stand some of the time but collapsed in a cramping heap the rest. Sick and nauseous, he could hardly breathe over his barren throat.

Fury at seeing Mark gave him a burst of adrenaline but all it bought him was a moment of standing on pain racked limbs.

"I can make it better," Mark said. "Give you a place to lie down. Give you water, food, something for the pain. Are you ready now?"

"I…I don't…I need…"

Sam couldn't finish, he couldn't put together a coherent sentence. He knew what he wanted to say but couldn't push the words out. All he had was pain and need.

"Are you ready? Say yes or I'll leave right now."

"I…uh…I…"

"One word, that's all. Say yes or stay here. Alone and dying. Let me help you."

Just for now, Sam thought, just to survive for now. Just say the word and hold on until Dean finds him.

Thinking of Dean made the decision for him.

"Go to hell," Sam forced out over his aching throat. He wasn't sure Mark could even hear his voice.

He knew for sure a moment later when Mark laid into his shins. Sam found he did have a voice when he started screaming.

Chapter 3

Sam didn't remember passing out but when he woke he was still in shackles, still in the barn, but now he was kneeling on the wood planks that served as the barn floor. He groaned and gasped and shifted but nothing made the position tolerable. Having his full weight pressed on his knees and shins almost sent him back to oblivion.

But even the agony in his legs couldn't overpower the consuming thirst in him and he stayed conscious. Had it been three days? Didn't you die after three days without water?

When Richard Gleason appeared, still in the tan slacks and blue dress shirt he had worn to eternity, Sam thought he was hallucinating. He was seeing double with one apparition hovering behind the other, shimmering like a desert heat wave. But, when Gleason smiled and crossed his arms his duplicate didn't follow suit. Before Sam could process that, Gleason spoke.

"He'll be here soon." The spirit must have meant Mark Foster. "I've explained that he's pushed too far. You're very close to death. It's why you can see us now."

Sam didn't respond, couldn't respond, couldn't tell Gleason that he'd seen lots of ghosts when he wasn't dying. Sam had seen Gleason's uncle when Sam wasn't dying but, really, did that matter now?

"Oh, I know you've seen me with Mark but that was different. I manifested for your benefit. Now, well, you brought us here because we're so close to being the same."

Sam wanted to argue, wanted to deny it but he didn't have the strength.

Gleason winked out when Mark entered the barn. He had brought two men with him. Like all of the help at the house, the employees never spoke in Sam's presence. It was an oddity that had taken root in Sam's mind so that even now, he noticed.

One of the men, the one with glasses who seemed to be the lead minion, went to the pulley wheel, unwound the rope and lowered Sam slowly all the way to the ground. Sam collapsed on to his side, his arms still in the shackles. The other man released him from those. Sam cried out when metal was pulled from his torn wrists and then the pins of circulation started. Tears sprang into his eyes but he squeezed them tightly shut, not willing to give Mark the satisfaction.

Sam lay still in terrifying agony, waiting for a bullet or a knife or a mallet to finish him. It wouldn't take much.

None of that happened. Instead he felt the light weight of a blanket cover him. He sighed at comforting warmth hoping it wouldn't turn out to be a death shroud. One of the men turned him, efficiently, even gently then Sam felt tepid water dribble over his cracked, swollen lips.

Sam's tongue lapped at the scant moisture even as it dissolved before reaching his throat. Whoever was doling out the water was selfish about it and Sam wished they'd just hand him the bottle. The thought slipped through and then a breath, and then arms linked around his on either side hoisting him off the floor. The blanket fell at his feet brushing against his damaged legs painfully and reminding him of the injuries Mark inflicted as well as the truth that he wouldn't be running away anytime soon.

The men holding him didn't seem worried about his weakness. They levered him up but since they were significantly shorter, Sam's legs skidded along the ground as they dragged him out into the warm daylight.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut at the painful blast of sun. He gasped then held his breath, fighting not to give voice to his pain. But, having his legs scraping against the uneven ground was excruciating and he was having a lot of trouble holding back a reaction.

Thankfully, they didn't have to go far. Sam was breathing hard by the time they stopped but he couldn't quite focus through the bright sunlight so he had no idea what was happening. He tilted his head back and forth trying to shake his vision into shape but when he couldn't do it, he figured that more than just light was the problem. He heard the squeak of neglected hinges then a wave of cool air brushed over him bringing with it a stale smell like old potatoes.

In the next moment, he felt a violent push on his back and the support of his captors released. The forward momentum defeated any semblance of balance he had managed and he fell, banging against wood steps as he rolled. Coming to a sudden stop when his back slammed into the floor, Sam gasped as the air was knocked out of him.

He spent the next several moments fighting panic while he tried to drag air into his lungs. Come on, breathe, he thought, the voice sounding so much like Dean that he wanted to look around for him. Instead he forced himself to relax, letting go of the tight fists at his sides and pushing back the fear.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Dean Winchester closed the lid on his laptop, harder than necessary, knowing Sam would have scolded him for it. He had spent hours scanning news reports, local gossip sites and historical references. Cayuga, New York, an upstate town that owed its life to a water treatment facility, was insulated and populated by the people who worked at the plant or at the small stores and restaurants that supported the plant. It was small, boring and devoid of anything supernatural.

And yet, Dean's brother had arrived there two days before and promptly disappeared.

For some stupid reason, Dean had decided to stay in Ithaca for an extra day to spend time with a pretty bartender. After he and Sam had dispatched a nest of vampires who had been feeding on the locals, Dean felt like he earned a break.

Sam hadn't wanted to wait around. He had been anxious to get to the Finger Lakes region where there were some Big Foot sightings. While both Dean and Sam knew that Big Foot was a hoax, Sam had pointed out that something still had to be responsible for the sightings.

Dean tried to get Sam to wait one more day but Sam decided to buy a bus ticket and they planned to meet at a motel near Seneca Lake. Dean wished he had tried harder because when he arrived at their meeting place, Sam was not there and had not checked in.

A day and a half of re-tracing his brother's steps had brought Dean to Cayuga where a bus driver confirmed that Sam had left the bus during a meal stop and not returned.

Dean spent the first hours in Cayuga visiting local restaurants. He started at the bus stop diner and fanned out from there. It didn't take long to get some sightings. Sam's gigantor size tended to make him stand out but in typical Sam fashion, the people who saw or met him couldn't reveal much. Sam wasn't the type to share, especially during a job. The people who remembered him remembered his size and his manners.

The only potential lead he got was from a middle aged librarian who had clearly been taking care of herself. She blushed when Dean smiled at her. She also told him that Sam had been asking about the family of the town's founder.

This started a whole lineage conversation of who begat who from the Cayuga founder Ely Gleason to the current Chairman, Richard Gleason.

Ely engineered the first water system that started the family fortune. He had three sons. The librarian said the smartest was also the oldest and his name was Edward. Edward and his, apparently, less intelligent brothers worked out county contracts and expanded the business. Edward also produced three more sons, James, Charles and Robert. James took over the business next and then James' only child, Richard, took over after James retired. Richard Gleason who inherited Edward's talent for business not only sewed up government contracts, he wrangled the latest technology as well.

"Everyone in town knows Richard Gleason," Marcy, the librarian said. "I guess that's why he stopped leaving his house."

"What do you mean," Dean asked.

"He's a total recluse now."

"How long ago did that start?"

"A couple of years, I guess. If you believe the gossip, he's either gone mad or left the country." Marcy laughed. "The plant manager runs everything now."

"What's his name?" Dean asked.

"Mark Foster. Nice man. I moonlighted as a bartender at the Sunfish Bar several years ago and he and Sheriff Carlisle used to meet there and drink."

"You? A bartender, Marcy? I'm a little shocked," Dean flirted.

She grinned and Dean smiled as he thanked her. She touched his arm briefly then blushed and walked away.

When Dean left the library, he rented a hotel room and started looking for references to Richard Gleason. Obviously something about the small town tycoon interested Sam making it the only lead that Dean had to his brother's whereabouts. If the lead didn't pan into something then Dean didn't know where to look next.

With that sobering thought in mind, Dean drove the black Impala to the Cayuga Water Treatment facility. As luck would have it, the facility operated one tour per day and Dean arrived five minutes after it started. He assured the ticket seller that he could catch up with the others, paid the eight dollar fee and followed the hall with the blue "visitor" arrows painted on white linoleum floors.

Dean did want to catch up with the tour because he could get an idea of the plant's layout that way. After the tour he intended to navigate on his own. An hour and a half later he considered shooting the perky tour guide and taking hostages.

Just as they reached the exit where cups of freshly treated water waited to be sampled, Dean took a turn and started his own examination of the plant. Walking through narrow hallways built around the steps and catwalks of the working facility he read signs and door markers that told him nothing. He avoided plant workers as best he could and when he couldn't, he pretended to belong. He was successful for a while until a hard ass with no hair and a George Michael earring stopped him.

"Who are you?" the man demanded, his overworked muscles rippling under a custom fitted shirt.

"I was on the tour, got a little sidetracked," Dean said, taking the crumpled visitors' sticker out of his pocket.

"This is a working government facility. You could be arrested for being here unescorted."

"Whoa, arrested? Take it easy there, buddy. I was just looking for the head and I got turned around."

The bald man cued up his hand held radio and called for security.

"While we're waiting," Dean said, conversationally. "Let me ask you something. People in town say the guy who runs this place lost his nut and doesn't come out anymore. Like Howard Hughes. That true?"

"First, I run this place. And second, Mr. Gleason, the president and chairman is the reason this town stays alive. People should not engage in gossip."

"You're Mark Foster? I, uh, heard your name on the tour."

The bald man ignored Dean's question and turned to the overweight rent-a-cop who showed up.

"Take Mr…." Foster looked at Dean.

"Perry," Dean supplied.

"Take Mr. Perry to the exit. He became separated from the tour."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Foster," the guard said and motioned for Dean to go first.

"Thanks for the hospitality," Dean quipped.

As Dean turned he caught sight of a reflection in the plate of flat metal that lined part of the hall. A man was standing behind Foster and then a moment later, he wasn't. It was so fast that Dean wasn't sure he had actually seen it.

Chapter 5

When Sam woke the first thing he noticed was warmth. It felt good. The second thing he noticed was a profound dizziness. He couldn't quite focus and his mind felt like it was slipping, like he couldn't keep hold of his thoughts. He tried to rub his forehead to massage some coherency into his brain but that attempt lead to another discovery. He couldn't lift his arms. At first he thought it was weakness then with a jolt he thought he had been paralyzed but the familiar sensation of cords around his wrists dissolved his first worries.

He shifted his head trying to see what was holding him but his vision swam with the movement.

He decided to rest a while longer because the only happy discovery he had made since waking was a lack of pain.

Chapter 6 

When Sam woke again his situation had changed significantly. The dizzy, floaty feeling had all but dissipated. The intense thirst had also abated.

Unfortunately the agony in his legs had returned with a vehemence that left him panting.

Hunger asserted itself with a sharp jab.

Still tied down, he felt hot and sweaty in that awful, sick way that came from fevers. He sighed, trying hard to think. All he came up with was that he really needed to get out of this situation.

A cool puff of air from somewhere over his right shoulder announced the arrival of Sam's least favorite human. He closed his eyes for just a moment to brace himself for whatever was coming next.

"I saved your worthless life," Mark Foster announced and Sam flinched at the sudden noise.

With Foster's arrival, Sam could figure out that he was bound to the floor as opposed to a table or platform. Foster looked like a giant as walked around Sam's body, glaring down at him as if he were a cockroach found with the good china. He kept fiddling with the charms on his necklace as he spoke.

"I gave you fluids, warmth, sedatives and analgesics. You're feeling better, aren't you?"

Sam bit back his smart ass reply. He didn't need to annoy the psycho.

"Yeah, better," he answered.

An inventory of his aches and pains and overall damage left Sam uncertain if he was being truthful. The line between complete agony, and where he was now, felt indistinct.

"You can keep getting better. Just agree to belong to Mr. Gleason. Let me teach you how. We'll take good care of you."

"Play slave to a dead man?" Sam coughed. The vibration through his diaghram sent a shaft of pain through this chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bite back a groan.

When he opened them again, Mark Foster was crouching beside him. His face hovered dangerously close to Sam's, the necklace hanging loose, nearly brushed against his skin.

"You haven't learned a thing," Mark said.

Sam coughed again, the pain escaping his lips. He really wished he could go back to sleep. And he really hoped he wasn't going to get beat again.

"The barn is still waiting. Is that what you want?"

"No," Sam answered honestly.

"Then say yes."

"No." Sam felt the pinpricks of water in his eyes. He shuddered. He did not want to go back to the barn.

Mark stood up. Sam heard his voice but couldn't make out the words. He was surprised to find he had closed his eyes again. When he opened them, suddenly afraid that he had lost track of Mark, he saw Richard Gleason leaning against a wall with his ghostly hands in his ghostly pockets. Mark stood just to the side of Sam's body.

"He's still fighting," Mark said. "We've never had anything like this before."

"Leave him for twenty-four hours. Untie him, leave water. After that you can take him back to the barn. I know that's what you want."

"I wouldn't mind, Richard, you know that. But, I'm not sure it'll help. I think we should kill him and move on. I can find another…"

"No. Look at him. He was beautiful before and he's beautiful now. Even after all you've put him through. Mark, just because something is difficult doesn't mean we should give up. I taught you that."

"Yes, sir."

"And Mark. Give him nothing for pain. He should feel every ounce of his decision."

Sam watched Mark smile as he glanced down at him.

Sam squeezed his hands into fists. Dad and Bobby had burned Gleason's uncle. He wanted to remind the evil spirit but all that came out was, "I can't wait to fry you."

Gleason shook his head as if he were disappointed or maybe just pitying, and disappeared.

Seeing the ghost dematerialize confirmed one thing that Sam had been wondering about. Mark Foster must know that Gleason is dead.

Chapter 7

Dean stood outside the treatment facility to stare at a series of black and white photos set into a long, gray stone wall that looked like giant tombstone. The wall was about four feet tall and extended about ten feet from the sidewalk to the end of the building. He recognized some of the faces from his research. The Gleason men, with their unflinching gazes, stared back at him. The last photo in the series showed a man with hair, perfectly straight and groomed, hanging around his chin. He didn't look like the traditional businessmen preceding him. But, he did look like the reflection that Dean spotted inside the building.

Dean pulled his cell phone out of his jeans pocket and called Bobby Singer.

"Ya find him?" Bobby asked.

"No, but I think I found out what he was doing. I saw a ghost, but, uh, the thing is, the guy's not supposed to be dead."

"Maybe he's looking for attention then. Maybe that's why he's hanging around."

"Yeah, maybe. Listen I got some names I need you to run down. All I got here is the party line."

"Go ahead," Bobby said.

Dean gave him the names of the Gleason clan paying special attention to Richard. After hanging up with Bobby, he drove to the Gleason house. Stereotypically, it was literally the house on the hill. Three stories of excess wealth that covered the length of a city block, it was painted blue with white trim. Plentiful windows were framed by old-fashioned white shutters.

Dean parked on the curb outside the iron gate. He stepped out of the Impala and leaned against the car with his arms folded. He felt a tingle go from his spine to his toes. There was something about this area that sent his "spidey sense" into overdrive. Going to the trunk he dug around until he found the EMF meter and took a reading. The device remained stubbornly silent.

About sixty feet of manicured lawn separated Dean from the stone wall surrounding the property. At least that much space separated the house from the gate.

Dean slid back into the driver's seat intending to take a tour around the property. He needed to know more about the evident security system. There were wires and sensors visible from the street that probably sounded an alarm when motion activated. He wanted to know if there were dogs, guards and cameras too, or just the electronics.

Just as he was about to crank the engine, a modern Mustang convertible passed him and drove up to the gate. Cherry red and rumbling with power, Dean watched as the driver's side window lowered then the driver's hand snaked out to press in a security code. The driver had pulled up too far from the panel so the door popped open and he leaned out to punch it in.

Dean recognized the oversized bicep and bald head as the same guy who stopped Dean at the plant. He kept his head down until Mark Foster drove through the gate then watched as the Mustang bypassed the front door to drive around to the other side of the building.

In and of itself, there was nothing suspicious about Foster's behavior. But, Dean's instinct was telling him something else. Not to mention the ghost that had been hovering around inside the plant.

"Sam, what have you gotten yourself into?" Dean asked out loud.

He drove around the property slowly, making mental notes as he did. After two passes, he stopped at a curb to write things down. He got out and climbed on top of a bench so he could see over the wall. He held up the EMF meter and this time it started beeping.

Dean looked beyond the wall line and spotted several buildings on the property including the main house, what looked like a guest house, a barn and a garage. He also noticed the Mustang parked on a gravel drive that separated the barn and the garage.

He put away the meter and took one more pass around the property before turning into the driveway leading to the front gate. Unlike Foster he could judge distance so he rolled down his window and easily pushed the call button on the security panel.

A disembodied voice greeted him immediately with a perky female lilt.

"Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?"

Dean looked into the camera with his best official stare.

"I'm here to see Mr. Gleason."

"I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Gleason doesn't see anyone."

"I'm Special Agent Dean Perry with the FBI. He'll want to see me."

"Just a moment, sir."

Dean waited longer than a moment. He had already fished out his fake ID but he was acutely aware of his clothes. He hadn't changed into the "Fed' suit.

The voice returned. "Will you put your identification up to the camera, please?"

Dean complied.

"Thank you, sir. May I ask what this is concerning?"

"That's a conversation that I need to have with Mr. Gleason," Dean answered.

"Mr. Gleason is unavailable at this time."

Because he's dead, Dean thought. "How about Mr. Foster then? I just watched him drive in."

"He's also unavailable at this time."

"So, what do you want me to put in my report? That no one at the Gleason compound is willing to cooperate with a federal agent? Is that what you want?"

"Your report is not my problem, sir. Have a good day."

Dean resisted the urge to slam his hand into the steering wheel. It wouldn't do for the chick at the microphone to see him losing his temper. He took a long look at the iron gate wondering if he could crash through it. He figured the Impala would crumple like an accordion.

Deciding to call Bobby to see if anyone could fabricate a warrant, Dean backed out of the driveway. Just as he was pulling into the street, his cell rang.

"Hey, Bobby," Dean said after checking the caller ID.

"I think I got something but you're not going to like it," Bobby said.

"Yeah, well, none of this has been a picnic so far. Go ahead and hit me with it."

"I found some reports on missing kids over there. They looked like runaways so, at first, I didn't…"

"Yeah, I ran across them too. It's not a lot and not weird for a town like this. Just a couple of them, right?"

"You done interrupting?"

Dean rubbed his eyes. "Sorry, go ahead."

"As I was saying, you're right, not unusual but then I threw a wider net. There've been a lot of runaways all over that area. And one of them was a sixteen year old boy named Gary Darcangelo. He's from Mahican and he turned up at home a few days ago after being gone almost two years."

"So, what, he's eighteen now? Where's he been?"

"Don't know. The article I read says the kid is traumatized. Won't leave the house, won't talk to police. His parents hired an attorney to keep everyone away from him."

"That's a sad story, Bobby, but what does it have to do with Sam?"

"Maybe nothing. But, the police have been out to that water plant twice following up on other missing kids. And they questioned Richard Gleason himself about this Darcangelo kid."

Dean sat up. He knew those guys were involved.

"They talk to anybody besides Gleason?"

"Uh, yeah, the, uh, plant manager, a guy named Mark Foster. I think Gleason's your best bet though."

"I don't know, Bobby. Gleason's dead. I'm putting money on the plant manager. How long ago did the cops talk to Gleason anyway?

"Right after the kid went missing."

"That's about the time Gleason stopped being seen in public."

"Might be a connection. If he did something to that kid or…"

"Or this Foster creep did something to both of them."

"It's possible."

"I still don't see where Sam fits in. I mean, he wouldn't have started a job without calling me."

"No, but he might start reading about it, figuring on catching you up when you got there."

"But, he wasn't even supposed to stop here. It doesn't make any sense."

"You can ask him when you see him. In the meantime, you should talk to that Darcangelo kid and see if he can tell you where he's been."

Getting back to his original problem, Dean asked. "Hey, you know anybody near here that can fake a warrant? I gotta get into the Gleason house but they're not opening up for visitors."

"You already try talking your way in?" Bobby asked.

"Started with that."

"I might. Let me make some calls. And Dean, be careful. Won't help your brother if you get caught in the same trap. Or worse."'

Dean hung up. He took another drive around the property looking for weaknesses but didn't find anything new. He was itching to just storm the place but he'd likely be overrun fast and that wouldn't find Sam.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 8

Sam drew his legs up slowly, dragging himself into a ball. It hurt to move but the shivering was killing him.

When Foster cut him loose the first thing Sam did was drink from the water bottle left near his head. It scared him that the small act wore him out. He tried to overcome the weakness, pulling himself up by using the wall for support, but the moment he put weight on his legs, the pain drove him back to the ground. He fell in a heap, crying out from the explosion through his battered body and losing consciousness for a while.

He didn't think he blacked out for long. When he woke, he scrambled his way to the nearest wall so he could lean while he sat.

Once he resettled himself, Sam took a moment to look at his legs. Having them stretched out in front of him made it easy. Swollen from ankle to thigh, red welts looked like they rose up off the bone and blood seeped from a couple of places where that damn stick broke the skin.

It was bad enough the first time Mark hit him but the repetitions were insane.

Sam sighed and closed his eyes. Where was Dean?

The stone against his back felt like ice so he abandoned it to lie on his side instead.

The most important thing was to recover, get enough strength to fight back. The only way he knew to do this was to drink the water and rest. Food would be nice but that wasn't on offer. In a few hours, he could try again. He wanted to know that when they retrieved him, he'd be ready to take them down and escape.

So he curled up on the floor, conserving body heat and letting himself re-charge. He only had a day. If he failed to get away then he was heading back to the barn to be tortured again. He really wanted to avoid that.

Maybe Dean would figure things out. Maybe he'd show up for a big rescue. That's how it usually worked. But, Dean was shacked up with that bartender and once he untangled himself from her, he'd have to re-trace Sam's steps. He'd have to follow the bus route, figure out that Sam got off early and find Gary Darcangelo to know why. Would Dean even realize that Richard Gleason was connected to their past?

Sam regretted not calling Dean right away. That was just basic procedure for the two of them. Neither worked jobs alone unless it was unavoidable and they always checked in. But, Sam didn't want to interrupt Dean's mini vacation. It was rare enough that they got a break, they were both still reeling from the death of their father, and Sam figured he could do a little research without involving his brother.

When Sam boarded the bus in Ithaca he fully intended to head straight to the motel where he was to meet Dean. He wanted to spend a day in relative quiet without his antsy, negative brother explaining all the reasons why hunting Big Foot was a waste of time. He hoped to find some common thread among the witnesses so he could point to it decisively and say, "Yahtzee, this is why we need to check."

He sat down on the bus taking an aisle seat so he could stretch out his long legs. A few moments and a couple of onboarding passengers later a scrawny kid walked up to Sam's seat. He had his hat pulled down too far and was peering out the window over Sam's shoulder.

"Can I sit here?" the kid asked. Sam moved so he could slide into the window seat.

Once there the kid pulled his hat down further and slunk so low in the seat, Sam figured he was going to sleep. But, instead of settling the kid kept easing up to look out the window then slipping back down.

"Avoiding a girl friend?" Sam had asked because clearly he was avoiding something.

"Where are we?" the boy asked.

"Ithaca," Sam answered, surprised by the question. "Where are you going?"

"Not here. How long until we get to Cayuga?"

Sam thought about the route and the bus stops in between. "About an hour and a half, I guess."

The kid slipped lower into the seat. If he kept that up, Sam figured he'd slide under it.

"Is that where you're going?" Sam asked.

"No. I, uh, I'm going home but, you got to go through Cayuga to get to Mahican on this stupid bus."

The hydraulics on the brakes of the bus groaned and blew and then they jerked forward into motion. Sam looked around at the other passengers. There were only a few and they looked generally bored. He looked back at his seating companion wondering why the boy hadn't taken a seat to himself.

"What's wrong with Cayuga?" Sam asked, now just curious about the kid's behavior.

"Crazy, damn people there, that's what. Hey, listen, can you just give me a head's up when we're close. And maybe just, block me on your side so nobody sees me?"

Sam frowned. "What kind of trouble are you in?"

"I can't…can't talk about it but I can't get seen there. They might…" his voice trailed off.

Sam was starting to worry about this extra, skinny boy. "My name is Sam. What's your name?"

The kid shook his head which let some tufts of brown hair fall out of his baseball cap.

"That's okay, you don't have to tell me. But, if you're in some kind of trouble, maybe I can help."

"I just want to go home, man."

"And you should. I'm just saying that you seem to be pretty nervous right now."

"You would be too," the kid said. "I got away and I'm still screwed up. And the only way home is on this bus and it goes right through town."

Sam shifted in his seat, his worry ratcheting up. "Got away? Got away from what?"

"A ghost, man. Laugh if you want but I'm talking about a real, friggin' ghost."

From there it wasn't that difficult to get the rest of the story. After admitting to knowing a ghost, civilians tended to be over the hurdle of hiding things.

The kid's name was Gary Darcangelo and he had been kidnapped on his way home from school by some guy driving a van. With a hood over his head and his wrists in handcuffs he had been spirited away to a stone cellar. Gary didn't describe his experience but, obviously, it hadn't been good from the way the kid played with his hands, tugged on the jacket he wore and refused to look Sam in the eye.

Sam asked a lot of questions: How did you escape? Have you spoken to the police? Do you know who kidnapped you?

He kept his voice soft to avoid gaining the attention of the other passengers and Gary seemed mindful of the same thing.

In retrospect, Sam should have been more wary. After all, he was just a guy on a bus and this kid was doing a lot of sharing. But, Sam knew he had a way of drawing people in and gaining trust. It was necessary for a hunter and besides, he was genuinely interested in helping people.

When Gary started describing the creepy guy with the long, blonde hair he closed his eyes to get through it. He said the feel of the ghost was cold but not like ice because it was incredibly dry. He said the ghost couldn't grip him but he could skim over him.

Sam jolted on the inside at Gary's description. He turned sideways to really look at the kid.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want to, look, I mean, he was a ghost, right? He never really touched me but it still felt like, you know like he was."

"Was the ghost driving the van?" Sam had asked just to make sure the kid wasn't lying.

"No, man. He has a human for that, lots of live humans to help."

"What's his name? The, uh, ghost?"

"I don't know. Um, he's the town founder or something like that. That's why I have to keep my head down cuz he'll have people looking for me."

Worried and reeling from the memories brought up by Gary's description of the ghost's assault, Sam debarked in Cayuga. He made sure the boy was still on the bus and watched as it pulled away after the meal break. Gary had stayed rooted to his seat, head down and body thrumming with fear.

After the bus left, Sam really should have phoned Dean. But if Sam had told his brother that he thought it was the same as before, as nearly ten years before, then Dean would have freaked out. The last time caused enough drama and Sam didn't want to pull out a full "911" until he knew for certain what he was dealing with.

In a storied history of mistakes, not calling Dean right away might have been Sam's biggest to date. Only a few hours later, Sam found himself in a vehicle with a bag over his head and wrists bound. Just before he felt a needle slide into his arm he heard Gary's voice.

"Did I do okay?" he had asked.

A voice that Sam now knew belonged to Mark Foster said, "You're a good boy, Gary. You get to go home now."

Sam closed his mind off from the memory, not liking the fear it produced. He had been set up so precisely he cursed himself out loud.

Glancing at the water bottle, Sam considered finishing it. Was drinking it all at once better for hydration or was parceling it out a better idea? He knew the answer but he was still so thirsty.

"No," he scolded himself. "Let's try getting up instead."

_Push past the pain, Sam_.

Dad's voice punched into his brain. The sound, imaginary but insistent, was hard to hear. His father had only been dead a short time but Sam needed his help. How many times had he heard that rallying cry during training, when he was too tired, muscles cramping from too many repetitions or too many miles run.

"Okay, Dad," Sam said. "I'm pushing."

He rolled on to his stomach, wincing as his legs scraped against the rough floor. The slightest sensation on that tender skin sent his nerves hopping, lighting him up from the inside. He gasped, breathed and pushed with his arms. Just like doing push-ups, except a different result. He got his toes into the game to keep his legs free of scrapes. In an inverted "v" shape now with his palms flat, his toes curled and his butt in the air, Sam stopped to breathe again. His wrists didn't like being used either. After hanging in the barn, the skin was mangled and the tendons felt stretched. Taking another long breath he decided his arms would hold him. He walked his hands backward towards his toes, slowly bending his knees, low moans filtering through clenched teeth until finally he was in a runner's sprint position. All he had left to do was stand up. Just get his feet flat and stand up.

He ignored the burning in his eyes while he struggled to get his shaking limbs under control. Dizziness swept through him, reminding him that it had been days since food. His stomach cramped with the thought.

"Stop it," he gasped out. "Get your head in the game."

Sam pushed up with his legs, hands scrabbling against the cold stone for balance. He trembled with each inch of height achieved. The fiery pain pinging with every motion carried through his back and hips and he cried out with it but he didn't stop. Until finally, he locked his knees, fully standing on shaking limbs, fighting bile in his throat. Great, pulsing waves of pain threatened his new position but now that he was up, he was loathe to give up the progress.

So engulfed in the thrill of success warring with sickness and adrenaline and torrid agony, Sam didn't see Mark Foster standing in front of him. Staring at the ground, sweat dripping off his face, tears dripping from his eyes, another set of feet were suddenly just there. It was like Mark had learned the tricks of his master and had just materialized.

All it took was one brutal blow to the side of Sam's head and he blew the bile he had been fighting and dropped to his knees. Sucker punch, Sam thought stupidly then all thought left him as his legs screamed in protest. He twisted onto his back, bringing his legs up. He kicked into Mark's legs and the other man lost his balance.

A frustrated cry rent the small cellar as Mark fell on his butt. Sam jumped on him, pounding at him with his fists, trying to make every blow count, aiming for his head and neck. If he could just knock him out.

But, Mark blocked his manic punches, frog crawling to escape Sam's fists. Sam followed but the adrenaline was burning up fast and he couldn't put pressure on his legs. Mark gained a few feet before he stood up. He pulled back with his booted foot and landed a hard blow to Sam's hip knocking him backward. Mark didn't stop kicking until he was curled up and moaning.

Mark sounded breathless when he finished. Obviously, kicking the crap out of Sam had winded him.

"You are so lucky that Mr. Gleason wants you alive," he said.

"Yeah, regular lottery winner," Sam ground out, barely holding the line to consciousness.

He was having trouble catching his breath but what troubled him more was the loss of ground. He had gotten to his feet. He had actually carved out a chance for escape. And then he failed like a picked on third grader.

"Mr. Gleason said to leave you water. He wasn't specific though."

Sam couldn't interpret the other man's words. The ringing in his head combined with the terrific pain pulsing through every part of him made Mark seem distant. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, trying hard to internalize a little. He'd lost fights before. He didn't spend a lot of time crying over it and he'd be damned before he cried in front of the sadistic bastard who beat him.

Yelling out anew when cold water splashed over him, Sam jerked upright then fell back when his legs scraped the stone. Mark held a dripping pail, smiling maliciously down at him.

"There's your water," he said cruelly before leaving Sam alone again.

Chapter 9

Sam lost all track of time. He just lay on the cold, stone floor shivering and trying to stay as small as possible. He had mostly dried, the wet evaporating from his thin clothes, but the bone deep cold remained. He had sucked on the hem of his shirt, getting as much moisture into his body as possible before all trace of liquid left him.

Hunger haunted him with every breath. His stomach felt uncomfortably crampy and it was seeping out into his limbs. He had heard that starving to death was extremely painful. He wondered if he was going to live long enough to find out.

_Pull it together, son._

Dad's voice whispered to him.

_Stop being such a girl._

That sounded like Dean.

If Dean wanted him to be tougher then maybe Dean should be a little faster on the rescue.

Sam scolded himself. It wasn't Dean's fault that he'd gotten sucked into this town's craziness or that he hadn't called Dean with an update on his status or that he'd walked stupidly into the trap laid by Foster and Casper, the crazy ghost. All that was on him.

This time Sam did hear the squeak of the cellar door. He braced himself as best he could but it was nearly impossible to keep down the panic screaming inside him. It was probably time to go back to the barn and he was terrified, not just of the pain although that was certainly on his mind. He was afraid they'd kill him this time.

No one spoke as they filed in. The lead minion with the glasses, and another man lifted him roughly off the floor. They didn't take care to keep his legs clear of the stone and they didn't respond when Sam cried out.

"Please don't," Sam said then bit his lip.

Begging? He was begging now?

He piped down, gritting his teeth, letting loose with some pained noises he couldn't hold in. He reached for Dad's voice but nothing came to him this time. It's not like they spent a lot of his adolescent training on resisting torture. Dad probably didn't think they'd need it.

Through bleary, tear-filled eyes, Sam spotted the barn door. He couldn't go back there. Surprising himself and the two men holding him, Sam freaked out, throwing himself into a violent struggle for release. He twisted his body, making one of his captors slip before barreling himself into the other one. They were yelling as he forced his legs to move, adrenaline pumping him forward. He didn't make it a dozen steps before a hard hit from the side sent him tumbling to the ground and the two men were on him again. Sam screamed his frustration, flailing like a trapped cat to escape until someone or something knocked him in the head so hard, it scared him. Pain flared up bringing an edgy darkness to his eyesight. His limbs felt limp, lifeless.

Hoisted again between brutal grips, Sam was dragged into the barn. All strength gone, his stomach a nauseous mess from the adrenaline spike, his captors didn't have to struggle to get him into the manacles again. The hardest part for them seemed to be lifting his 6'4 frame high enough to get his feet off the ground.

His legs didn't like hanging loose and he moaned loudly, mostly insensible now.

The damp, rotted smell of sweat combined with rusting iron and metallic blood. His belly lurched with the odor and he felt bile rise again. He pushed back, fighting not to vomit. The battle was nearly lost when Mark's voice invaded his suffering.

"Feel sick? You spewed all over me before and I didn't appreciate it."

Sam couldn't speak, didn't even want to because the only thing in his head was "make it stop".

"I can forgive you though. Say yes right now. Turn yourself over to Mr. Gleason. Say yes."

Sam wanted to agree so much that it hurt, an actual physical ache that had nothing to do with all the other ones vying for attention. He couldn't take much more of this.

Dean's face loomed up in front of him. He looked so real that for a moment Sam thought he could reach out and touch him. The narrowed gaze, the brush of whiskers, the grim slash of his mouth was all Dean. Sam felt the hot burning in his eyes. He wanted it to be him but Mark's voice pulled him back and Dean faded.

"Say yes and all of this stops," Mark said. Sam could hear the clicking of the charms while Mark played with them.

Sam tried to say no, to tell him that he couldn't do it but there was no air to push the words out. He couldn't, wouldn't betray Dean and give in.

"One little word," Mark said, his tone taunting and dangerous.

"Stop," Sam said, not sure where that word had come from or how it came out of him.

"That's the wrong word. Think about it. Food, water, rest, some good drugs to ease the pain, medical attention, it's a lot to gain for such a small word."

"I…I can't." There was no force, barely any sound with the words.

"Of course you can. You're just being stubborn now but there's no shame in agreement. You've shown how strong you are. Now it's time to reap the benefits. Imagine sleeping in a clean bed, not feeling hungry or sick. You've earned it, haven't you?"

_Hold on, Sammy._

"Dad, help."

Sam felt his world view narrowing. All that existed was pain and voices and he didn't know what to do anymore.

"You have no father. All you have is this," Mark said.

_Don't you dare give in, Sammy, don't you do that to me._

Dean's face, angry and edging towards disappointment sprang back to the forefront. His brother was reaching for him.

_Don't do it, Sam._

He didn't have the strength to keep his pain silently inside. But, he could breathe so he pulled in all the air his weakened body could muster.

"No." His voice sounded like sandpaper. "No."

For a moment silence reigned. Sam kept an unfocused eye on Mark who stared back with thinned lips. Sam could feel his heart slamming against his chest. Then Mark was running at him like a hell hound after a doomed soul, the dreaded stick held high like a spear. Everything in him focused on the sound of footsteps slapping against the wood floor, Mark's face twisted in fury and the stick coming at him. Sam screamed in fear and dread as he braced for the impalement.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 10

Dean drove the narrow, tree lined roads through several minute towns. The most impressive thing about them was their multi-level, gargantuan houses with wrap around porches and bright, green lawns. The towns themselves were forgettable. Forty five minutes after leaving Cayuga, he found himself being welcomed to Mahican by a nice sign proclaiming a population of 1702.

The boy that just found his way home lived a mile and a half east of Main Street. Dean found the house by reading the local newspaper that conveniently printed his address.

"Small towns," Dean said, derisively.

After a couple of wrong turns and finally asking directions from two boys shooting hoops in a driveway, Dean found the Darcangelo residence. The house was two levels with a widow's perch on the second floor and a wooden floored porch. Brown, with darker brown trim, it looked like it could use new paint. The window frames were cracked and peeling and loosened. The rusting eaves lining the roof were filled with leaves. What had probably been a nice piece of property had fallen victim to poor maintenance.

Dean turned off the engine. He pulled a box out of the glove compartment and pawed around until he found the identification labeling him as a private investigator. He didn't need it often since it tended to close more doors than it opened but, in this case, he thought it might get him in.

He walked up the cracked driveway, across an inlaid walk and up the creaking steps of the porch. The front door was wood with no window but it did have a peephole. He pressed the lighted button for the doorbell and heard a faint dinging inside the house.

A man opened the door. About Dean's height, he had thirty more pounds of bulk on him and not in a good way. His brown hair was messy and there were deep lines on his face. Dressed in faded blue jeans with an oversized blue t-shirt that barely covered his stomach, the man looked Dean over before speaking.

"Can I help you?"

"My name is Dean Perry, I'm a private investigator." Dean held up his ID, flashing it at the older man.

"Are you Mr. Darcangelo?"

"Get out of here," the man said.

"I know you've been getting some attention from reporters but I just want…"

"I don't care what you want. Get off my property."

"Mr. Darcangelo, I'm looking for a missing person. He was last seen around Cayuga which is where the police believe your son was taken. I need to know if Gary saw him or knows anything about him."

"He doesn't. He wasn't taken but he's… I'm not putting him through this."

"What do you mean? He wasn't kidnapped?" Dean asked.

"I don't know where he was and I don't care. He's home now."

"Mr. Darcangelo, the man I'm looking for has a family just like you and they need to know where he is. If Gary can just look at a photo and say whether he's seen him then I won't ask anything else. No one wants to upset your son but I need to find this man."

The man wavered for just a moment then started shutting the door. "I'm sorry, we can't help you."

Dean put his foot inside and his hand against the brown wood. "I hate to do it this way but I need to talk to your son."

"Get away from my door."

"Mr. Darcangelo, your son may be the key to finding my brother. I'm not going anywhere until I talk to him. If I have to push my way in here, I will. But, save us both the trouble. Let me in."

"I'll call the police."

Dean shoved the door open and stepped over the threshold. As he did he withdrew the handgun at his back. Darcangelo gasped, stepping back at the sight of the weapon. Dean shoved the door shut with his foot.

"What do you want?" Darcangelo asked, his eyes darting between the gun and Dean's face.

"To talk to Gary. Seriously, dude, pay attention. I just need ten minutes and I'll be gone."

Darcangelo shifted from one foot to the other and glanced up the stairs. Clearly, he was still undecided.

"I don't want to hurt anyone," Dean said. "But when it comes to my brother, I'm not known for patience."

Darcangelo looked upstairs again. Dean watched him considering what to do next. Obviously the man was protective of his son, which was understandable. But the guy wasn't willing to help someone going through the same hell, and that made him a douchebag in Dean's book.

"Marjorie, bring Gary downstairs," Darcangelo yelled then looked at Dean. "Put your gun away."

Dean tucked the gun into his jacket pocket.

Appearing at top of the stairs was a fifty something woman with faded red hair and pale, white skin. She wore "mom" jeans and an oversized white t-shirt with the Yankees emblem across the front. Behind her a painfully thin boy with stringy brown hair stood. He was dressed in blue jeans that hung low on his hips and a white undershirt.

"What's going on, Mike?" Marjorie asked.

"This is Mr. Perry. Come on down, son, this man needs to talk to you."

The boy peered over his mother's head, eyes shifting between Dean and his father. He kept using his right fingers to fiddle with his left.

"We agreed he wouldn't have to talk to anyone," Marjorie said.

"This is different. This man's brother is missing and it might be the same people who held Gary."

"No one held me," Gary said. "I told you. I was just…just gone."

"We all know that's not true," Mike said.

"Don't push him," Marjorie scolded her husband.

Dean didn't have time for the family drama. "Look, kid, you're scared, I get that. But, I'm not leaving until we talk."

It took too long to convince Gary Darcangelo to come downstairs. Dean had to fight his impatience. He wished Sam was there because his brother would flash the puppy dog eyes and the kid would confess everything but Sam wasn't there. And Dean just knew this kid was the key to figuring out what happened to him.

When Gary finally descended the steps, Dean was surprised to find that he was tall, almost Sam tall. Looking at him closer, Dean was reminded of when Sam was seventeen or eighteen. He had been skinny, all limbs, and wore his hair too long.

Gary passed Dean and slinked into the living room where a comfortable floral couch waited for him. He sat down in the middle and his parents closed in on either side of him. Dean took the matching easy chair sitting on the other side of the coffee table.

"My brother's name is Sam. He went missing in Cayuga. Does that mean anything to you?" Dean asked once everyone was settled.

"No," Gary answered quickly.

"You're going to have to stop lying to me, kid."

"I'm not. I don't know anything about your brother or Cayuga or any of that. I left home. I lived on the streets and I hustled men to stay alive."

Marjorie gasped. Mike put his head in his hands. Dean just scowled, not believing a word of it.

"You're lying."

"No. I just didn't want my folks to know, that's all. So, thanks for stopping by."

"Gary, my brother…"

"Is your problem. I can't help you. I-I'm sorry, really, but I can't help…can't help you."

"Look, kid, you keep saying 'can't' and I think that means you know something but you're scared. Well, I'm scared too because I don't know where my brother is, or if he's even alive. Now, I won't tell anyone where I got the information. But, you need to tell me what you know."

"I'm sorry," Gary said.

"That's it, we're done," Marjorie said, putting an arm around her son and pulling him close to her.

"No, we're not done," Dean said, glaring at the mother. "Gary, do you know where my brother is?"

"We did what you asked. Now, go," Mike said, standing up to add force to his words.

Dean looked at Gary. He was visibly shaking while his mother hugged him. Marjorie kept her tear-filled eyes on Dean but there was venom there too. She would protect her son. Mike pointed towards the door.

"Go," he said.

"Gary," Dean said.

"You're right about Cayuga," the boy said quickly. "The ghost…your brother knew."

"Knew what?"

Gary shook his head. "He knew about the ghost. That's it. I'm not saying anymore."

Dean looked around at the family. The kid was shaking, his mother was crying and his father was heart attack red. Dean knew he'd gotten all he was going to get.

"Okay," Dean said as he stood. "Thank you."

As he walked out the door and across their beaten porch, Dean pulled out his phone. He called Bobby as he made his way back to the Impala. He wanted to fill him in on Gary Darcangelo and to find out about the fake warrant. Before he could get passed a greeting, Bobby took over the conversation.

"Dean, I did some research into the Gleason family. You remember how the company got handed down, right?"

"Yeah, uh, Ely, Edward, James and now, Richard. Unless it was Edward and then Ely."

"James Gleason, Richard's father, had a brother."

"Didn't he have two brothers?"

"Shut up and listen. He had a brother named Charles. He was the middle son and he died when he was thirty or so. He was killed in a car accident, Dean."

"Okay, so, what, you're thinking vengeful spirit? A serial rapist with unfinished business because that is really…"

"Listen to me. A few years before he died, Charles Gleason moved to New Hope, Pennsylvania and changed his name. "

Dean stopped walking. "What?"

"Charles Gleason is Charles Glass from New Hope."

"You and Dad took care of all that. Sam was just…"

Dean looked back at the Darcangelo house with a teenaged Sam-clone protected inside it.

"I should have remembered sooner." The regret was clear in Bobby's voice. "I made the connection back then for your dad, but the guy just, in my head he was Charlie Glass."

"It can't be him."

"Yeah, I know. But, maybe the family is bent wrong. Maybe there's another one. We knew that Glass had a human partner. We just couldn't find him."

Dean pulled the phone away from his ear needing a moment to think. He remembered and that was the problem. He couldn't get his head out of the memories so he was having trouble putting the pieces together.

He put the phone back up. "The Darcangelo kid confirmed that a ghost held him prisoner in Cayuga. He said that Sam knew about the ghost."

"Dean, I'm already halfway to New York. Soon as I saw Glass's name I got in the truck. Now, listen, you need to lay low and wait for me. If Sam's disappearance is connected to Glass…"

"How is this even possible? Dad hunted down Glass's bones and burned them."

"You're right. I helped your dad do the burning, okay? But, the Gleason's popping up again like this? It's too big for a coincidence and I don't believe in…"

"Coincidences. Neither do I, Bobby. I got get in the Gleason house. You have any luck with the warrant?"

"Yeah, I got hold of an old friend. He's sending it overnight. Should have it around ten tomorrow morning."

"Can I pick it up sooner?"

"Not unless you can drive to Tucumcari and get back."

"Even 'baby' can't do that. I can't wait until then though."

Bobby argued with him for ten minutes against breaking into the Gleason Estate. He made lots of good points about all the things that could go wrong from getting arrested to getting shot but Dean finally just thanked him and cut off the call. Bobby was on his way and he knew where Dean was going. That was going to have to be enough because he needed to find Sam.

Chapter 11

Sam was not naked. He reminded himself of the fact as he shuddered. The dry, "almost-touch" of bony fingers felt like a cold caress against his skin. If he hadn't been so weak, so beaten, he thought he'd be more irritated than anything else. But, as it was, being helpless, having Richard Gleason ghost over his body sent waves of nausea through him. It was just like before and the memories crashed in hard enough to be painful.

Mark had resisted the urge to skewer him with the stick. Unfortunately, he decided to ignore the rule about broken bones. Sam spent as much time trying to take shallow breaths around his damaged ribs as he did trying to keep some contact with the floor to relieve the pressure on his chest.

Compared to that, getting molested by Casper the Handsy ghost should have been nothing. But, his orders to stop went unheeded and memories from before kept invading the present. He had to concentrate on not letting his vulnerability overwhelm him.

Gleason hovered, scarily close. He smelled like nothing except maybe snow. No breath gusted against Sam's face, not even the breeze or mist that sometimes accompanied apparitions. All that existed was Gleason's being, touching him with too many hands taking liberties that Sam never granted or wanted.

"You remember, don't you? I'll bet it feels just like it did."

Sam tried to block him out. It reminded him so much of the other ghost. A bad memory with consequences that lasted for months even though Dad ended it.

"Mark has no interest in touching you, not like this. He prefers the violence. I don't. I remember the way you were as a boy. So much smaller and softer. This is different. I can't decide if it's better. Can you?"

Sam gasped, closing his eyes as the tendrils of cold snaked downward, past his belly.

"Get off me," he ordered or thought he did. It was hard to tell anymore if he was making any noise at all.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 12

After speaking with Bobby, Dean returned to his hotel room. He spread out the notes he had taken and compared them to the photos on his phone. Like a lot of other alarm systems, the estate's looked better on paper than it actually worked. There were no cameras and the alarms on the stone fence were set up on separate circuits. He could cut one wire and be over the wall before anyone could react. After that, it would just be a matter of staying out of sight while he searched for Sam.

He hadn't seen anything to indicate the estate kept guard dogs. Or any other dogs for that matter. No animal feces, no food bowls and no kennels were evident on the property.

As for patrols, he would have to see when he got there because there was no way to know unless he spent a night doing surveillance which he didn't have time to do.

As soon as night fell, Dean locked up the hotel room and headed to the massive house.

He parked the Impala at the bottom of the hill. He hated to leave it so far away but after the surveillance he conducted earlier, he was afraid of having it spotted. He walked around the block in order to approach from the back side of the property. Due to the shoddy security, he was able to walk straight up to the fence but it was high and he couldn't see over the top. If he touched it, alarms would sound. Fortunately though, for some reason, whoever designed the system failed to take into consideration that planting trees around the fence might actually provide access.

Dean tossed his sawed off over the fence, hearing it land with a dull thump on the other side. He leaped for the lowest branch on the maple that hung over the wall and began to climb. As he hoisted himself up, he figured that if the alarm system was that bad then a contingency likely existed. Guards or a hidden system must cover the property.

Dean climbed across the branch, listening as it creaked under his weight and hoping he didn't hear a crack. When he reached the narrowing end, he glanced to make sure he would not touch the fence when he dropped. Seeing it was safe, he jumped, bending his knees with the impact and landing easily. He retrieved the gun and looked around for security personnel but no one presented themselves.

Making his way over soft, grass in a moonless night lent him the best possible scenario. Still, as he grew closer to the house, the trees grew less dense but there were still no guards or surveillance equipment. He darted around as carefully possible, staying hidden when he could but he knew that if anyone was somehow monitoring the property then he would likely be seen. He still had his FBI identification and could claim the warrant was en route but in all likelihood, if he was caught, he would be spending the night in jail.

Dean made it to the first structure in the back. He had already decided to start with the barn and then move to the garage. Mark Foster had driven to and parked between the two buildings earlier, so Dean figured it was the best place to begin.

The barn had a traditional theme with its thatched roof and red paint. He guessed they must keep horses though a stable would have been more useful than a simple barn. With his back to a tree, he looked around for guards but still found nothing.

Dean turned around, intending to make a run for the building when cold mist seeped around him and his breath shown like an icy fog. He lifted the shotgun, getting ready to blast the spirit that was bound to materialize. But, when it did, its face was so close that Dean jumped back with an audible gasp. By the time he brought his weapon to bear, the spirit was gone. He took a moment to catch his breath. It all happened so quickly, he wasn't even sure what it looked like.

"All right," Dean said aloud. "Get moving."

He reached the barn, put the shotgun under his arm and lifted the long, wooden bar from its cradle where it kept the doors closed. He set that aside, re-positioned the shotgun and pushed one side open. The creaking made Dean hold his breath, fearing the sound announced his presence as he entered.

But, the only one to hear him was Sam.

Hanging from the barn ceiling, wearing gray boxers and a white t-shirt with his head hanging against his chest, he looked dead. Dean ran the short distance. He could feel his own heart pounding as he reached his brother. When he touched him, Sam flinched and Dean felt some of the terror leave.

"It's all right, Sammy. It's me."

"Ghost," Sam said.

"Yeah, I met him. Don't worry I'm always ready, right? Come on, let's get you down."

Dean followed the line from where's Sam's bleeding wrists were bound to the metal that held him up. He stopped himself from feeling the rage building up inside him. The most important thing was getting Sam out of those manacles and off this property. After that, he could come back and kill every last one of the people who hurt his brother.

He couldn't shoot through the short chain or he'd take off Sam's hands so he'd have to pick the locks secured to each wrist once he got him down.

"Ghost," Sam said, more forcefully.

Dean turned around, checking out the barn for an angry spirit. Sam might be confused or he might be shouting out a warning in his graveled, half-voice. But, Dean saw nothing in the barn with them so he unwound the rope from the pulley. As the rope grew loose, he hung on tighter until finally, he could lower Sam slowly to the ground. It would have been nice to catch him and ease him down but the pulley system was too far away.

Sam cried out as his legs folded beneath him.

"Sorry, sorry. Hang on, it's almost done."

Dean cursed, knowing he was hurting his brother and knowing he couldn't do anything else.

"Try to relax into it. I'm getting you out of here."

"Dean, go."

"I hear ya, kiddo, we're going."

"No, no, you have to go."

Dean had finished with the pulley. Sam was crumpled on the floor with his arms twisted above his head. Dean went back to him, stopping to look at his injuries. He grasped Sam's chin gently to look at his face first. Matted hair and dull eyes was all he found there. As he looked further, he could see purple and yellow and blue mottles of color peeking out from beneath Sam's t-shirt. He cursed again as he ran his hands over Sam's chest, feeling the uneven bones of cracked ribs. Sam gasped and Dean apologized again, but, Dean kept looking. When he found the deep welts, swollen skin and the horrible rainbow of bruises covering his brother's legs, he had to stop for a moment.

"Christ, Sammy, what'd they do to you?"

Dean reminded himself to focus. He took the case where he kept lock-picking tools out of his pocket then started working on the manacles.

"No time," Sam said. "They're coming. You have to go."

"What are you talking about?"

"The ghost. Dean, please. He told them about you. They're coming."

"Sammy, there's no ghost in here. Just hang on."

Even as the words left his mouth, Dean heard voices. They were shouting and they were getting closer. He couldn't tell how many but it sounded like several.

"You have to go," Sam said.

"I'm not leaving you. Don't be stupid."

"Get help. Come back."

Dean stopped. He looked at the rusted manacles. The pins inside the locks were broken. It would take several minutes to pop them. He looked at Sam, beaten and half dead and terrified. The voices were getting closer. If they captured him too, how would he save Sam? But, he couldn't just leave him. He couldn't just leave Sam to be tortured. But, what could he do if were caught?

The shotgun held two rounds of salt. His handgun was fully loaded. But, what did that mean, really? Could he hold them off with one gun? Could he kill a bunch of humans? Looking at his broken brother, he thought he could but…

"Dean, please. Go. Please."

"Sammy, I can't."

"You have to. Please."

"Sam," Dean's voice broke over the one word. He knew they'd be coming through the door. More people than he could fight alone. Humans that he couldn't just shoot and locks that he couldn't pick in time.

What if they fired back? What if they hit Sam?

"I'm sorry," Dean said before he realized what he was going to do. He held his brother's face between his two hands. "I'll be back. I'll be back."

"I know."

"God, Sammy."

"Go. Hurry."

The voices sounded too close. If he burst out in front of them, they'd take him down. If he was captured, he could be near Sam but he couldn't protect him that way. He looked at his brother one more time then headed out towards the back of the barn. Just as four men came through the front, he found some loose boards in the back. Dean could barely see the rough wood as he yanked it apart. He shoved himself through the narrow opening, pushing with his feet, scraping against the dirt outside with both hands until finally he slipped into the night air. He wiped his eyes, the wetness surprising him. Was he crying, sweating, did it matter? He ran full on towards a copse of trees near the fence. As soon as he reached the relative cover, he crouched down.

His hands still felt warm from touching Sam's feverish skin. He knew it was just the memory coming back, hitting him with his failure. He left Sam there. How could he have done that? Wrapping his arms around his middle, he closed his eyes.

"Oh, God, what did I do?"

Dean yanked out his phone. He listened for any sound of pursuit but none came. It would be obvious that he had been in the barn, why weren't they coming after him? Were they more interested in Sam?

He swallowed that back and dialed up Bobby.

"Where are you?" Dean asked as soon as he heard the older man's voice.

"Still a couple hours out. What's going on?"

"I'm about to do something stupid. You'll have to come get us."

"What? Wait. What do you mean?"

"I found Sam." Dean's voice failed him as his throat filled. He coughed and wiped at his eyes again. "I left him there, Bobby. I left him."

"Dean, listen to me. Stop and think. If Sam's not dying then you have time. Is he dying?"

"I don't know. He's hurt. It's bad."

"Is he dying? Come on, son, think."

Dean stopped to listen again. There were still no voices or people moving around near him.

"I don't…I don't think so. But, Bobby…"

"No. You listen to me. Where are you?"

"Hiding. The Gleason property."

"And Sam is there?"

"Yeah."

"Call 911."

"The cops didn't find any of the missing kids."

Dean didn't add that whoever was holding Sam could easily just kill him and hide the body, that they might be doing that now. Dean looked towards the barn, panic overtaking him again.

"Get someplace safe. We'll get him together," Bobby said.

"Just come to the estate. I'll wait as long as I can."

"Dean…"

"Hurry."

Dean cut off the call. He looked around, not understanding why no one was looking for him. When the bad guys found Sam, they had to realize someone had been there. Why weren't they searching?

Chapter 13

Sam pushed back against his thoughts. He stared at the vaulted ceiling of the barn, his arms still twisted and suspended by the manacles. The rest of his body was crumpled like it was a different part, like he'd been severed.

Mark Foster's minions moved around the barn, moved around him, talking and pointing excitedly. Sam imagined they were armed but he couldn't shift enough to look. He didn't have any coordination left.

The minion with glasses crouched down beside him. Sam felt his presence more than saw him. Sam hissed when the man grabbed his hair and yanked his head back.

The man spoke to him, demanding something but Sam didn't want to understand. The man's voice sounded echoey and far away and Sam preferred it that way. He didn't care if it was English or even words.

He felt darkness crowding in, pulling him down and that's what he wanted.

The man let him go roughly and Sam closed his eyes. He wished someone would turn him around so his arms were straight. He wished they'd let him lie down.

Movement continued unchecked around him. He couldn't work up the energy to care although he thought he probably should. Dean was around there somewhere and if the minions found him he knew that would be bad.

Thinking of Dean roused Sam with a jolt. Drifting in half-oblivion wasn't going to work if his brother was in danger. He gave himself a mental shake. It didn't work, at least not entirely. Getting the sounds and movements surrounding him to make sense remained elusive.

It was finally the sound of Mark Foster's voice that brought Sam back on-line. The pure adrenaline brought on by fear blurred past the darkness and Sam's whole being shifted into reality.

"Who was here?" Mark demanded.

"His brother. The one you met at the plant," Richard Gleason responded, crouching beside Mark in a mirrored stance.

Sam wondered if the minions were watching this conversation, if they could see Gleason or had left the building.

"What brother?" Mark looked at Gleason. "You never told me about a brother."

"He came to the plant, you had him escorted out. Don't you remember?"

"I remember that, but, why didn't you tell me who he was?"

"Mark, I'm dead. I can't be expected to lead you through everything, can I?"

Mark stood up. Sam hoped he moved away. One more kick to the ribs and he figured he'd be adding a collapsed lung to his problems.

"Richard, if his brother found him, if his brother came here then we have to get rid of him."

"Did I ever tell you why I wanted this boy, Mark? We could have kept Gary, couldn't we? He wasn't used up yet, not like the others. Didn't you wonder why this boy was so important to me?"

Sam tried to shut them out. He didn't want to remember Charles Glass. He didn't want to hear Gleason's story. But, they were too close and too immediate to ignore.

"Yes, sir, I wondered but…"

"I know. You never question. But, let me tell you about this boy, Mark. I've had him before. When I was a younger man, when I was alive, I had a relationship with my uncle that was very much like your relationship with me. He had died but he didn't go away. He came to me and he showed me how to choose the right prey so we could share. When this boy's father came looking for Uncle Charles, well, what could I do? I took this beautiful fourteen year old boy and brought him to my uncle. It was the most exhilarating time. We played with him for days. Until they found us. His father stole him back, and then they tried to send Uncle Charles away. That wasn't fair, was it?"

Sam's memory of those days flooded through him. He could still feel the thin mattress beneath him and the chains on his wrists. He could still smell the stink of blood. He had been blindfolded for days, completely cut off with no one talking to him. The only reality was the inescapable tendrils of something cold and dead brushing over him and then the other one who must have been human touching him in a way that made him sick.

"I don't understand," Mark said, his voice breaking the trance Sam had fallen into. "Your uncle came back from the dead, just like you did?"

"Yes, Mark, of course. Taking boys, turning them into whatever we want is so exciting. He couldn't give it up, any more than I could."

Mark paced halfway across the barn. "Until you came back, I thought dead was dead. I mean, the heart attack and then the days in between, I thought that you were gone for good."

"But, you didn't really think so, did you? If you really thought I wasn't coming back then you wouldn't have done everything just the way I asked, would you?"

Mark shrugged. "I guess not."

Gleason shimmered and Sam thought he might disappear but the moment passed and he looked frighteningly human again. In all their years of hunting, Richard Gleason was the most lifelike spirit that Sam had ever seen. Usually, the energy required to maintain form and speech was short-lived but somehow, Gleason managed to stay visible and animated for extended periods of time.

"When we were at the bank in Ithaca, we recognized him," Gleason said.

"He's a lot older than the teenagers," Mark said. "I didn't really understand why you wanted him so badly."

"His family is evil and they're liars," Gleason explained. "I was hiding in the cemetery, watching while they promised my uncle over and over that they wouldn't burn him. I thought Uncle Charles was just waiting for all of them to be in one place so he could break their necks, the adults, so that we could have the boy again. It didn't happen though. My uncle must have believed they'd keep their word because by the time he acted, it was too late. The boy's father and the other man burned his body like he was nothing."

None of them had known that Richard Gleason was in the cemetery that night. If they had, Gleason would have died much sooner than he did.

"Revenge was only part of it though," the spirit continued. "I wanted him for you too. I know you like the breaking process best. You were bored with Gary, weren't you? And this, an adult with a hunter for a father, I knew you'd have fun with him."

Sam swallowed. It felt like gravel being shoved down his throat.

The sheer insanity of their conversation shook him. Dean always said that monsters made more sense than people and Sam knew it to be true. Monsters lived specific patterns of behavior. People did crazy, sick things for no apparent reason. Like his uncle, Richard Gleason had been a pedophile in life and he took it past the grave. Mark Foster was a human sadist.

Sam exhaled. He hoped they didn't hear him. As long as they were focused on each other, they weren't watching him.

Mark stopped pacing to turn in his direction. He cocked his head like a curious dog. Sam had the feeling that Mark just remembered he was there.

Mark crouched next to him again. "Where'd he go?"

Sam didn't know, wouldn't have told if he did. But, he'd never be able to convince Mark that he had no idea where Dean went. The beat of his heart picked up and he started to shake. He ducked his head down, curling his fingers up, and feeling smooth metal against his knuckles.


	7. Chapter 7

Notes: First of all thank you to all who have visited the story. I appreciate the interest. Second, a special thanks to Skye1963, Little White Comet, Serenityhimessheppard, LotRia, ghfan22222 and murphy9202 for either making this a favorite or putting it on their alert status. It's good to know that you're reading and interested in how things turn out.

Finally, I didn't want to put an "M" rating on this story but after reading the general descriptions on the ratings page, I decided that this was a "16 and up" kind of story. Hopefully, the "M" didn't put people off.

So, that's it. Thanks for reading and I hope to hear from you.

Chapter 14

Dean maneuvered his way through the trees and around to the front of the barn.

As far as he knew the four men who had burst in were the ones still there. If they weren't chasing Dean then they must be occupied with Sam. There was no way he could let his brother wait for hours longer to be rescued.

He checked the ammunition in his handgun. He had enough bullets. He made it two steps before the barn door opened and the four men emerged. Ducking back behind the tree he watched as a couple of them tucked guns into shoulder holsters.

"We know there's an intruder," one of them said as he straightened his jacket over the holster.

"That's why I'm leaving," the second one said.

"Yeah, this thing was okay before but now… " a third one commented.

"We can't just leave," the first one said.

"Foster spends all his time talking to himself like he's got an imaginary friend," the fourth man complained.

"He's talking to Mr. Gleason," the first one said.

"Well, I've never seen him," the second one said. "I'm done with this."

Three of the four walked away towards the main house. Dean guessed they would keep going until they were out of town. The dissenter, an older man with wired glasses and dark hair, watched them for a moment then pulled a two way radio out of his belt.

"Bentley to Casey. You see anything yet?"

"Negative," a female voice answered. She sounded like the one who had been covering the front gate earlier that day. "It's clear up here."

Bentley headed off in the opposite direction of his ex-coworkers.

Dean waited until he couldn't see the guard anymore then made his move. With the four men gone, he didn't know what to expect inside the barn. There could be an army waiting or maybe, no one. Maybe just a ghost named Richard Gleason who would announce Dean's arrival again.

Dean approached the barn door with his shotgun ready. If he had to fight, he knew human adversaries were easier to defeat than a spirit. He reached out to push open the door when something jammed into his side. He shifted to grab the arm of whoever held the gun only to have someone else seize him from the other side. Multiple arms shoved him to the ground and before he could fire a shot or land a punch, his arms were handcuffed behind him.

As he was pulled to his feet, he recognized Bentley and the other three guards who had quit. Or not quit which was obviously the case. None of them spoke as they shoved him inside the barn. Two of the guards held his arms, manhandling him to his knees.

Dean searched for Sam, finding him still on the ground, body half suspended. Mark Foster stood behind Sam wearing the parody of a smile. Dean couldn't tell whether the man was amused or disgusted.

"You didn't look for me," Dean pointed out.

"Why bother when it was so easy to draw you back inside," Mark said.

"I'm guessing you actually do have cameras."

"Yes. We've been tracking you since you deserted him."

"Then I fell right into it, I guess."

Dean kept glancing towards Sam. He couldn't help it. Sam hadn't opened his eyes or acknowledged his arrival. He was afraid his brother's beaten condition had become worse since he left; since he deserted him.

"You really aren't very clever," Foster said. "I found you at the water plant. I didn't believe you were with the FBI earlier today. And now I've caught you during your rescue attempt. These amateur antics don't make you a hero. They make you foolish."

"What did you do to Sam?"

"Oh, this and that."

Enraged, Dean made a desperate surge forward. Even with his hands bound, he thought he could take the overconfident office jockey and that would be one step towards getting to Sam. The guard on his left was unprepared and Dean broke free of him. Bentley was not. He yanked Dean back and punched him in the side of the head. Dean grunted with the impact, his vision graying for a moment. The blow hurt and he was still on his knees but after a couple of breaths, he said,

"You know I'm gonna kill you, right? All of you."

Sam interrupted with a groan, shifting awkwardly and twisting himself around.

"Sam!" Dean called out. "Hang on."

"To what?" Sam asked in a voice so rough and muted that Dean wasn't sure he heard correctly.

"You have to go," Foster said to Dean, then to the men holding him, "Take him to the cellar. I'll let you know what to do with him later."

"No," Dean objected. He called out to Sam again as the men lifted him. He struggled, knowing it was useless but not willing to leave his brother behind. He yelled obscenities and threats until they were halfway across the yard then he changed tactics.

"Hey, come on, you all can't be in on this, can you? My brother didn't do anything. He doesn't deserve this."

"You should be worried about yourself," Bentley said as he provided escort across the property. He had also taken possession of Dean's weapons.

He hadn't searched Dean though and that was something. All he had taken were the guns.

"Gleason is dead, right? But, he's still around here," Dean tried again. "That can't be right, can it? You have to know that's not normal."

"You're wasting your breath," Bentley said.

Dean knew that, he just couldn't stop himself. Gleason's ghostly uncle had assaulted Sam when he was just a kid and now Gleason had him. Obviously, Sam had been beaten by these bastards but had Gleason gone further than that? Dean needed to get Sam out of there.

"You know they're a bunch of perverts, right?" Dean asked.

Apparently Bentley didn't feel the need to answer. He stood by while the fourth member of the creepy rent-a-cop band pulled out the shutter doors of the cellar.

"Watch the steps. They're steep," Bentley said indicating that Dean should go down.

Dean figured it was climb down on his own or fall down with help so he took the steps easily. Once he reached the bottom, the doors closed without any further comment from his captors.

Dean cursed out loud. His hands were still bound. He didn't have a gun or a plan. And just as he had feared before, he wasn't with Sam to protect him.

Dean started searching the dark, cavernous cellar. There had to be a way out. There was always another play to make even when everything looked hopeless. His father had taught him that and it was true.

Maybe the only play left was Bobby's arrival with a fake warrant and a surprise attack but Dean wasn't going to leave their survival to that one possibility.

Dean climbed back up the cellar steps. Keeping his balance was trickier with handcuffs but not impossible. He started out by hunching over and pushing on the doors with his back. The doors shifted but didn't open. Next he tried examining the seams for a weak spot. He thought that if he pushed hard enough where the doors split, they would probably pop open. It was old wood and not reinforced but he was worried about the time it would take and about the noise. He didn't discard the idea just went in search of options.

Chapter 15

Sam felt someone examining him. He felt the fingers against the pulse at his neck, felt a hand against his chest. A cool breeze brushed his torso when his shirt was lifted and then a moment later it was pulled back down. Sam didn't move or try to fight. He lay on his back keeping his eyes closed and hoping that Dean would come back.

He wanted to scream his frustration at them but he didn't. He stayed passive and quiet because he knew that Dean needed time. If he could hold them off for a while longer, Sam was certain that Dean would be back.

"I'm going to kill your brother," Mark whispered in Sam's ear.

Sam flinched at the proximity and the words.

"There're lots of bones outside. He'll just be one more missing person."

"No," Sam said, his whole body going cold at the thought.

Mark moved back and laughed. "I could do it right now. Have him brought here and shot in front of you."

Sam jerked up, rattling the chains on his wrists. He opened his eyes to meet Mark's.

"Don't."

"Why do you care? He left you here. He failed."

"He didn't leave me," Sam disagreed though his voice was scarily weak.

"How about we make a deal? Mr. Gleason really wants you and he really doesn't like your family. Maybe we could balance it out. You say 'yes' and I don't kill your brother. How does that sound?"

Against his will, Sam's eyes watered. The anguish in his voice was palpable. "I can't."

"Sure you can. One small word from you unlocks everything and it saves your brother's life."

"Let him go?" Sam asked, not sure if he was buying time now or just panicking.

"Of course. But, don't think he'll come back to save you. I'll let him go right after I put you on a plane. He'll never find you, but, he'll be alive."

Sam closed his eyes again, rage and grief overwhelmed him. When he didn't speak Mark prodded him with more words.

"I need an answer. Say 'yes' or I'll kill him now."

"Please, I…I can't."

"Yes, you can. Save your brother's life. End all this suffering for yourself. Say 'yes'."

Slow things down, Sam thought. "Time. I need…I have to think."

"There is no time," Mark said. "It's now or the deal is off. Save his life or kill him. What's it going to be?"

"Have to think."

"Really? I'm surprised." Mark waited a moment then thumbed his radio. "Bentley, bring the brother back. We don't need both of them."

There was no question now. He was out of time and out of options. "Stop. I can't…you can't."

"You're confused. You've been through a lot. It's all right. Once your brother is dead, I can just break you the old fashioned way. No need for leverage, right?"

Sam slumped letting his head fall back against his bound arms. "Ok, I'll do it."

"You'll do what?" Mark pressed.

"Yes! I'm saying yes."

A concussion erupted through Sam's body at his words. He shook, actually vibrated with his agreement. But, as the oddity of that swept over him, he heard Dean's voice.

"Get away from him."

With effort, Sam forced his head up and was rewarded by the sight of Mark Foster backing away from him. But, just as Sam's mind started to catch up with current events, he spotted Richard Gleason standing behind Dean.

"Look out," he yelled.

Dean spun with the shotgun up. He fired at the same time that Gleason waved his hand. The shot rang true, dissipating the spirit but Dean's body lifted and flew a few feet before landing with a thud. Mark rushed forward. Somehow he had found the hated stick and was carrying it. Dean twisted away from him, bringing the shotgun to bear again. Mark screamed as he attacked, the stick came round in a violent swing. Dean blocked it with the gun, rolling on to his feet smoothly. With a low drive, Dean tackled Mark taking him down on to his back. Dean fisted the heavy, silver chain, lifted Mark off the floor and punched him viciously in the face, pummeling him with short, hard blows. He didn't stop for longer than it should have taken. When he finally rose up, he had the shotgun ready, looking around, probably expecting the spirit of Richard Gleason to return. Mark didn't move.

Dean kept looking around the barn. Sam knew that Gleason or the guards could return at any moment and he assumed Dean knew it too.

Dean made his way to Sam.

"It's okay, I got ya."

Just as Sam despaired again because they were in the same situation as before, no way to get Sam free, Dean produced the manacles key.

"That scumbag had it." Dean nodded towards where Mark still lay.

Dean popped open the two locks in quick order. Sam's arms fell like useless weights. He heard Dean curse and looked around for trouble but didn't see anything new.

"Your wrists look like hamburger," Dean said. "Can you walk?"

Sam just looked at him. He wasn't sure he was tracking Dean's words.

"Come on, kiddo, you're too big to carry. You gotta help."

Sam understood that. If they were going to escape, he'd have to rally. He just didn't know if he could. He tried to take a deep breath but his broken ribs complained. He wanted to take Dean's hand and be pulled on to his feet but his arms weren't listening. His body was moving, he wasn't paralyzed, he just couldn't coordinate everything.

"Okay, okay, take it easy, I'll think of something."

Sam spotted Gleason before Dean did but only just. Dean shot him quickly and Gleason yelled out as he disappeared. Mark took this moment to decide to stir. Dean scowled.

Before Sam could object, Dean wrapped his arms under Sam's and pulled him away from the pulley system. Sam swallowed back the pain that caused and kept a tenuous hold on consciousness. Dean settled him gently so that Sam was now sitting up and leaning against a floor to ceiling beam. Dean went back to Mark.

Sam watched the brief struggle while Dean dragged Mark across the floor to where Sam had been. He might have passed out for a moment because the next thing he was aware of was Dean patting his face.

"Come on, Sammy, stay with me."

A scared voice came from someplace but Sam couldn't track it. "You can't leave me like this."

"Shut up," Dean said.

Sam found that Mark was now locked into the manacles that had held him captive. His brother's insistent voice came back to him.

"Can you move your arms? Sam, can you move your arms?"

Sam tried and found they were working again, a little sluggish and achy but he could move them. Dean pushed the shotgun into his hands.

"Stay awake. Watch for Gleason," he said.

Sam figured he could do that much. He cradled the shotgun with his finger on the trigger. Spirits tended to announce themselves with the crackle of extra energy and a drop in air temperature. He hadn't noticed those things with Gleason but he hadn't been at his best either so he was hoping he'd have that extra moment to react. He just needed to stay aware of his surroundings.

Dean pulled out his cell phone. The blip, blip, blip of dialing and then he said,

"I'm near the Gleason estate. I heard gunshots and I think I smell smoke…yeah, yeah, send everybody… Mark Foster…the plant manager… I'm going into the property."

Dean shoved the phone back in his pocket. "911", he explained.

"Get down!" Sam shouted when Gleason appeared behind him. Dean ducked and Sam fired. Once again Gleason disintegrated in a haze of salt and mist.

"Stop that!" Mark cried out.

"Shut up or I'll shut you up," Dean said.

Sam handed the shotgun to his brother who took two more shells out and loaded it. He handed the weapon back to Sam.

"We gotta get out of here," Dean said. "That's it for the salt."

Sam didn't have an answer. Now, that Dean was there and in control, he felt himself slipping. The thirst, the hunger and the pain racking through his body just overwhelmed him. He forced himself to stay awake so he could watch for Gleason but he couldn't do more than that. He needed to leave the details to his brother.

"Do you think you can walk if I help?"

Sam didn't know.

Dean crouched next to him. He took Sam's face between his hands. "Talk to me."

"I'm thirsty," Sam said.

"Yeah? Let's see what I can do. It's a barn, right? Barns have animals. There's gotta be water."

Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder before leaving him. Sam kept the shotgun up and ready. He knew Gleason would be back. He shuddered, hoping the police showed up before they ran out of ammunition. And wasn't that the strangest thought? Hoping for police? That wasn't the Winchester way.

Sam heard metal squeaking and then the sound of water. If he had enough moisture in his body, he knew he'd be salivating.

Dean knelt in front of Sam. He put a plastic bucket down beside them. Cupping his hands, he reached into the bucket and drew out water. Sam slurped up what he could then started coughing as it hit his stricken throat. Dean rubbed his back but the vibration through his diagram attacked his broken ribs and Sam felt himself passing out. Dean pulled him back with frantic words. Sam couldn't lose consciousness when Dean sounded so panicked.

"Okay, I'm okay," Sam whispered.

"Jeez, Sammy, don't scare me like that."

"Broken ribs."

"I know, I know, I'm sorry, I should've thought of that."

"I'm okay," Sam insisted and hoped it was true.

Dean sat down beside him. They were next to the side wall so their back was covered. If Gleason returned, it probably wouldn't be from behind. Dean took the shotgun.

"They're going to figure out that I got out of the cellar," Dean said. "And they're going to find that idiot who had the shotgun."

"How'd you get out?"

"There were some stakes in the ground. I pulled one up and used it to break the lock on the other side."

Sam didn't point out that he was far too familiar with the stakes in the cellar.

"You were handcuffed," Sam said instead.

"Still had my lock picks. Wasn't easy from behind but we've worked with less. I dug the stake out and fed it between the doors. The latch was pretty solid but I was motivated to get back here."

"What about the, uh, the idiot?"

"Kicked him in the back of the knee and he hit his head on a rock. You should've seen it. A thing of beauty."

"Lucky," Sam said.

"Skill," Dean corrected.

A moment passed in silence. It felt good having Dean next to him. In the distance, Sam heard the first sound of sirens. He sighed. If they could hold out a little bit longer they'd make it. When the barn door crashed open, Sam's hope evaporated while Dean jumped up to his knees, aiming the shotgun.

Bobby Singer held up his hands. "Don't shoot, ya idjit, it's me."

In the next breath, Richard Gleason appeared in a shimmer of energy. Dean and Bobby fired at him but not before he sent Sam skidding sideways into the nearby wall.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 16

"You can't win," Mark Foster said. "He's so much more powerful than you."

Dean ignored Foster as he scrambled to get to Sam. He hunched over his brother who was lying on his side, panting. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam's shoulders and gently turned him on to his back.

"God," Sam cried out.

"I know, I know. Easy does it, Sammy."

"Say, yes," Foster said. "He might spare you."

Sam turned his head into Dean's side, burying his face in the leather jacket.

"Bobby, shut him up," Dean said.

He rubbed his brother's shoulders gently. "It's okay, it's okay, you're safe."

He watched Bobby put a shotgun under Foster's chin. Whatever he said to go along with that turned Foster pale and had him scrabbling against the floor to back up.

Dean listened to the sirens, insistent and clearly on the property. He looked at Bobby who had returned to hovering near the door.

"We'll have to carry him out of here."

"What's the plan?" Bobby asked.

"Get off the property for now. Get Sam some help. Christ, Bobby, they beat him half to death."

"What about the spirit? And this numb nuts?" Bobby nodded towards Foster.

"We'll figure it out later. Just leave him there."

"Gleason is attached to him," Sam said. "Kill him, kill Gleason."

Dean cast a surprised look at Sam. "Did you just tell me to kill a human cuz usually, that's not…"

"He tortures kids. He lets Gleason...do whatever he wants."

Dean looked at Bobby, considering. "He's got a point. This guy is a monster, maybe one of the worst we've seen."

"He's human, Dean. Humans ain't our job."

Bobby leaned down and took Sam's arm over his shoulder. Dean took the other side and they lifted together. Sam made a strangled noise in his throat but he shifted his legs underneath him. Once they managed to get balanced, they headed for the door. With Sam's significant height, it was awkward going. He was leaning forward putting pressure on their necks and shoulders in order to stay upright while at the same time scuffling his feet on legs that didn't want to hold him.

Dean yanked the door with one hand, delivering them into the open field between the barn and the house. The cloudy sky was sparkling with the reflection of police lights and Dean could hear excited voices. A few hundred feet away, he saw uniformed officers searching near some trees.

"We'll never get him over the wall," Bobby said. "We need help."

Dean hated the idea. The police would take Sam to the hospital but he and Bobby would be detained. Bobby must have read his mind because then he said, "You get out of here. I'll take care of the police. Meet your brother at the hospital."

"Bobby."

"Don't argue, boy. Just go before they see you."

"What about the spirit?"

"If it's attached to the guy in the barn then we don't need to worry about it."

Dean shifted Sam's weight on to Bobby. He made sure they were steady and that Sam wasn't distressed. He took Bobby's weapons and hefted them with his own. Sam didn't look at him or really anyplace. He was conscious but unfocused.

"Go now," Bobby said. "I can't hold this kid forever."

Dean nodded. "See you at the hospital."

As he ran towards the tree line and the fence beyond, Dean's breath hitched in his chest. It felt too much like before, when he left Sam in that barn. He heard Bobby call out for the police and forced himself to keep running.

Chapter 17

Sam woke to comfort. He didn't hurt, he didn't feel hungry and the cotton mouth keeping his lips sticking together was nothing like the horrendous thirst he'd been experiencing. His chest felt tight which was preferable to the broken glass rattling around in there before. Even his legs seemed better.

The odor of antiseptic and medicine permeated the air around him but the blanket keeping him warm and the pillow beneath his head smelled like soap. The cleanliness of it made him sigh. He'd been living with sweat and urine for days so the soft aroma of freshly washed bedding felt like peace.

His mind clicked along but maybe a little slower than normal. He wasn't sure he could accurately judge competency. He wasn't sure he cared either. He was warm, comfortable and safe so what more could there be in life?

With a slow exhale he thought about Dean. He lazily turned his head in either direction but didn't find his brother sitting at his side. He did notice that his wrists were tightly wrapped in bright, white bandages.

Not seeing Dean seemed a little bit odd but, everyone had to use the bathroom and get food. Dean would probably be upset that he wasn't there when Sam opened his eyes.

Sam stretched a little. Twisting his legs and torso produced a sharp twinge that he didn't want to repeat. He also had an IV in his hand to watch out for. He settled back and closed his eyes.

Dean and Bobby would arrive soon to break him out of the hospital and maybe they could steal a week of downtime at Bobby's house. He figured Dean would be in full protective mode so he it wouldn't be hard to convince him. After a rest, he wanted to come back to investigate the Big Foot claims.

Sam let himself drift off. He thought that only a moment or two could have passed before he heard movement in his room. He blinked himself awake and jerked backward. Standing at the end of the bed, Mark Foster grinned.

Sam shoved himself as far up on the bed as he could. His heart thudded against his chest. Another man stood beside Mark.

"What?" Sam spluttered, not believing what he was seeing.

"Relax, I'm just here to visit," Mark said kindly. He looked demented with one swollen eye, his bottom lip cracked and bruised cheeks. "This is Doctor Langstrom. He says I can take you home in a day or so."

"What are you…how are you…Get out of my room."

"I wouldn't dream of leaving you alone when you're so weak and vulnerable. What kind of uncle would I be if I did that?"

"You're not my uncle. Where's Dean?"

Mark flashed a helpless look at the doctor. The older man wore a white doctor's coat with a nametag saying he was Doctor Walter Langstrom. With gray hair gracing either side of his head and a shiny, bald skull, he patted Mark on the shoulder before looking at Sam. His blue eyes shined like marbles in the fluorescent light.

"Mr. Foster…Sam," the doctor said. "Everything may seem a bit confusing right now but that's just due to the trauma you experienced. I'm happy to say you're getting much better."

Sam pointed at Mark then back to himself. "He kidnapped me. He did this to me."

"The people who hurt you are in jail, Sam. Your uncle just wants…"

"He's not my uncle," Sam insisted.

The doctor grew more serious. "You need to rest. Everything will seem clearer with time."

Sam sat forward. "This man kidnapped me. He put me in here. The men at the jail are my family."

Mark put his hand lightly on the doctor's shoulder. "You see, it's as I've been saying. He has moments of lucidity and then there are these wild stories. I don't know what to do for him."

Doctor Langstrom made a sympathetic noise as he gazed at Sam's medical chart. "Yes, I can see the problem. There's virtually no sign of any type of drug in his system. Usually, in a case like this, we'd find traces of his prescription medications. If he's not been taking them for a long time then any progress that was made would be…"

"I'm not taking drugs because I don't need them," Sam insisted. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"All right then," the doctor said to Mark. "We're just waiting on the power of attorney from your sister as well as the medical records from his doctor. Once those are in place, we'll be able to treat your nephew. In the meantime," he turned his attention to Sam, "It's best if you stay calm, Sam. Just get well. Your body has a lot of trauma to work through, all right? Okay then. I'll be back to check on you later."

With that, Doctor Langstrom left the room. Sam collapsed back in the bed, rubbing his forehead.

"Where's Dean?" he asked.

"He's in jail. Him and that other friend of yours. That's where they're going to stay for awhile."

Sam laughed, humorlessly. He thought hard about the rescue. He remembered hearing Bobby call out and then things got fuzzier. He remembered being on a gurney and the lights at the top of the ambulance. But, where had Bobby been then? He couldn't remember seeing him after passing out on the lawn.

"Your brother was caught trying to get in here. After kidnapping me the way he did, that took a lot of nerve. The other one, uh, Singer, he never made it off the property before the deputies found me and took him into custody."

Sam reached for the bedside phone wondering vaguely if his cell phone was still at the Gleason estate. He leaned over only to find Mark Foster standing in his way.

"Move," Sam said, dangerously.

"Or what? You're weak as a kitten. Besides I have to tell you what's going to happen next."

Sam reached out, dislodging the IV line with the motion. He grabbed Mark's shirt collar, yanked him down and slammed his face into the table. Mark struggled free, stumbling away a couple of steps.

Despite the blood starting to seep through the bandage on his wrist, Sam gave Mark a self-satisfied smile.

"You'll pay for that," Mark growled, rubbing his forehead. "Now, listen to me. The police and the staff here think you have brain damage. They think the two in jail are vagrants who attacked both of us."

"You can't pull that off. All I have to do is talk to the police and it'll be obvious there's nothing wrong with me."

"Nothing but dementia complicated by paranoia. The sheriff believes Doctor Langstrom and he believes me. I'm a respected member of this community."

"No." Sam denied Foster's words. "I'm getting out of here. Then I'm getting my brother and Bobby. But, don't worry about going to prison because you won't live that long. That's what's going to happen."

"You have anger issues, you know that?"

"I've been told," Sam replied.

"What's actually going to happen," Mark continued. "Is that I'm going to check you out of here and take you back to the estate. We still have a lot of work to do. And there's nothing you can do to stop me."

"I'll kill you first."

"How are you going to do that? You can't walk. I'll bet you can't even stand. Adrenaline, maybe? Won't last long enough. And don't forget, I have someone very powerful on my side."

A nurse came in the room. She looked at Sam's hand with the IV pulled out and the blood on his wrist. She made some disapproving noises that weren't quite words.

"He got a little excited," Mark commented.

The nurse, Miss Gayle, according to her nametag, glanced at him then took a double take at the lump forming on Mark's forehead. It was still red and clearly recent.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

Sam lurched forward, panic starting. This couldn't lead anyplace good.

"My nephew was upset. He's calmer now," Mark answered.

"Your nephew." The nurse risked a look at Sam. "Did that? Just now?"

"He wouldn't let me use the phone," Sam said. "And he's not my uncle."

She pressed the patients' call button. "Is that how your IV was pulled?"

"Look, I'm not…"

Before Sam could finish, another nurse entered.

Miss Gayle asked her to call Doctor Langstrom. The woman nodded and left the room.

"All right, let's get this replaced." She gathered up what she needed and competently inserted the needle into Sam's hand. "Just relax."

"I'm fine. I'm calm. I just need someone to listen to me."

"Of course. The doctor will be here in a moment and we'll get you all sorted out."

"Why can't you people understand me? Can't you scan my head? If I was crazy, wouldn't it show up? Something? Some abnormality. Just do that and when it shows I'm okay, you can call the state police and have this…this imposter arrested."

"We'll run all the tests that need to be run. You just lay back and relax," she said.

Mark Foster slithered out of Sam's room when Doctor Langstrom came in.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 18

Dean and Bobby sat together on one of the narrow cots in the jail. They were alone with only the smell of mildew, metal and past prisoners to keep them company. Every few minutes, Dean would stand up and start pacing then he'd return to the cot. He hated being locked up, hated that the police thought he and Bobby had roughed up Sam and more than any of that, hated that Sam was on his own at the hospital. At least he hoped his brother made it to the hospital because no one at the jail would give him any information.

Both he and Bobby stood up when they heard footsteps approaching from the wide, gray painted hallway. One of the sets sounded like the clicking of high heels. Dean smiled when he saw Ellen Harvelle approaching. The owner of the Roadhouse Bar was dressed in a nice black skirt and white blouse with three inch heels. She had her brown hair pulled back with clips. Dean had only ever seen her in jeans at the bar and he was impressed at how well she carried the outfit.

Sheriff Carlisle walked beside her. Dean was glad to see that he didn't look happy.

"We need to talk," the sheriff said. "Mrs. Harvelle has brought some proof of your claims with her."

"I want to see my brother," Dean said.

"I know but this is sensitive. I just need an hour of your time and then you can go. Your brother is safe at the hospital."

Carlisle plugged a key into the cell door and unlocked it. Dean pushed through, giving Ellen a hug as soon as he was out. She hugged him back then gave Bobby a brief embrace.

"Thanks for coming, Ellen," Bobby said.

"You know I'm happy to help. These boys cannot seem to stay out of trouble, can they?"

"That's a fact," Bobby agreed.

"I know it's a lot to ask," Carlisle pressed. "But if I'm going to arrest Mark Foster, I need your statements. Will you give me an hour?"

"No," Dean answered, walking a few steps away before the sheriff's voice stopped him.

"Mr. Winchester, I am sorry for what happened. But, if you want to get justice for your brother, I need your help."

Dean sighed as he turned and came back. He noticed that neither Bobby nor Ellen had followed him. "Sam's in the hospital?" he confirmed. "You're sure he's safe?"

"I'm sure. I checked on him a little while ago. The nurse at the desk said he was resting."

"Why don't I go sit with Sam while you finish up here?" Ellen suggested. "I can keep an eye on him for you."

Dean smiled at her then turned a serious expression at Carlisle. "All right, Sheriff. One hour and then I'm going."

"Fair enough. Come on into my office."

Dean hugged Ellen again. "You're the best," he said.

"Oh, don't be silly. Just finish up quick and meet me there, all right?"

Ellen squeezed Bobby's hand and headed back down the hall leaving the men in front of the jail cell.

The only reason Dean agreed to help Sheriff Carlisle was because he wanted Mark Foster in jail. He needed the bastard to pay for hurting Sam and he needed him locked up so he couldn't do it again. If the sheriff could manage it then Dean would let Foster keep breathing. Besides, with Foster in a cell, he might be more willing to give up the location of Richard Gleason's grave.

"So, she brought the records?" Bobby asked the sheriff.

Carlisle was a tall man, nearly as tall as Sam but thin as a rail. He had a full shock of red hair that curled around his chin. He motioned for them to start walking as they headed back to the office area.

"Yeah," he said, answering Bobby's question, "She had Dean's second grade report card and Sam's immunization record and a couple of photos of both of them with their father. Birth certificates for both as well. And an old power of attorney from John Winchester giving you permission to take care of the boys for some dates back in '87, I think."

"I knew there'd be a good reason to keep that stuff. The pictures, of course, but the rest of them records aren't going to be much use for anything anymore. I just didn't want to get rid of them."

"Well, it's a good thing because it proves that Dean and Sam are brothers and that Sam is not Mark Foster's nephew. If Mark's lying about that then he's lying about all of it. I just can't believe he's a kidnapper and maybe a murderer. I've known him for twenty years or more. We used to drink together back when we were both moving up the ladder."

"Believe it," Dean said. "I know of at least one other victim. There are probably more."

The three men walked past the reception area and into Carlisle's office. The Sheriff settled behind an old desk while Bobby and Dean took chairs in front. Carlisle opened the desk drawer producing a small tape recorder. He pressed a button to pop it open, removed the miniature cassette then popped another one in. He set the device on the blotter between them.

"You ready?" he asked.

"We're ready. Let's get on with it," Dean answered.

"All right. Just tell me what you know. Use as many dates and times as you can remember. First one of you, then the other. And when you start, be sure to identify yourselves."

Carlisle pressed the play and record buttons and nodded.

Dean started to tell his story from the time he and Sam separated until he realized Sam was missing and then finding him at the Gleason estate.

Chapter 19

Sam drifted with the waves. If he moved too much in either direction, a nauseous wave of dizziness would overtake him. He decided it was better to keep still. Moving was sickening and painful and worse than that, confusing. He couldn't figure out how he ended up on a boat. He didn't know why his arms refused to move and he didn't know why light burned his eyes every time he made the mistake of opening them.

At one point a jolt of fear shook him as he took stock of his symptoms and thought he must have been turned by a vampire. The only thing that kept him from being certain was that the noise and odor of his surroundings remained dim, almost non-existent like those senses were dulled not amplified.

He wished he could focus. He was just on the edge of clarity but his thoughts flowed away with every rock of the boat.

When cool fingers brushed across his face, Sam stiffened. He opened his eyes, caught the whisper of Richard Gleason hovering beside him and snapped them closed again. That weird double image appeared just like it had in the barn. Another splash against the boat and he swallowed against the surge of bile. The icy touch traveled down his neck and across his chest and Sam tried to raise his hands to fight but they weren't cooperating, nothing was cooperating.

Still feeling the sensation on upper body, his eyes shot open when the spirit's touch passed his waist. He caught just a glimmer of Mark Foster standing near the wall before the light overwhelmed him again.

Chapter 20

Bobby answered his cell phone on the second ring. He glanced at the caller ID as he lifted it to his ear surprised to see Ellen calling so soon. He stood up and walked into the reception area nodding at the woman behind the desk. He kept his voice down knowing that Dean was only a few feet away giving his statement to the sheriff.

"Ellen?" He asked.

"I was in an accident," Ellen's voice sounded strained and he could hear other voices coming through the line. "I didn't get to the hospital."

"An accident? Are you hurt? What kind of…"

"Wait a second, Bobby… Quiet, you made this mess. Now, I am on the phone so you pipe down." Ellen said to someone else. Then to Bobby she said, "The taxi driver ran a stop sign. It's minor and I'm all right, but, I never made it to Sam. I'm going to let the ambulance transport me so I can get there."

"Dammit, Ellen, I didn't think. You should've asked for my keys."

"Well, I didn't so just let Dean know that I'm not with Sam and I don't know how long this will take."

"Take it easy, all right? We'll be leaving right now to get Sam. I'll stop and get you too. Where are you?"

"Go with Dean. I'm fine here waiting for the ambulance, all right? Take care of the boys and I'll be along as soon as I can."

"You're damn stubborn," Bobby said.

The call disconnected and he went into the sheriff's office.

Chapter 21

When Bobby told Dean about Ellen, the interview with the sheriff ended mid-sentence. Carlisle asked Dean to finish his statement but Dean ignored him. He just walked out of the station and found his car outside. Carlisle had asked one of the deputies to move it out of impound and leave it at the curb. At least the sheriff could be counted on, Dean thought, though he was still angry at being arrested.

Bobby climbed into the passenger seat. Dean was glad Bobby had decided to ride along in the Impala rather than take his truck.

As he pulled away, Dean saw the sheriff come out and get into a marked car. Dean assumed Carlisle was coming with them to the hospital. It wasn't until they happened on Ellen's car accident and Carlisle pulled over that he realized that the sheriff was responding to the collision.

Dean slowed down, watching out the window and wincing at the crunched metal of the taxicab. At first he didn't see Ellen but then she waved from where she sat on the ground.

"Don't feel right leaving her there," Bobby said.

"You want me to stop?"

"Yeah. I'll catch a ride with the sheriff."

Dean pulled over. Bobby slid out, slammed the door shut and gave a short wave as Dean continued to the hospital.

It only took another couple of minutes to get to the three story building with its bright, white walls and framed windows. Dean took the first parking space he could find. He couldn't explain his anxiety, tried to convince himself that it was a hangover from misplacing his brother but he couldn't quite manage to believe it.

He went up to the front desk where an elderly woman dressed in a red striped smock greeted him. She was gray haired with plastic glasses.

"Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I need a room number. It's for Sam…" Dean hesitated. What name did they use when he was admitted? Knowing he couldn't claim Sam as his brother without knowing his last name, Dean said, "Um, Sam, he's a friend of mine, I just don't know his last name."

"That's all right. I can look it up under Sam. What day was he admitted?"

"Yesterday. It would've been early morning."

"All righty, let's see." The old woman tapped a few buttons on the keyboard, waited, then tapped some more. Finally, she looked over her glasses and gave him a smile. "You must mean Sam Foster. He's in room 318."

Dean pushed back the surge of anger at hearing Sam's name associated with the psycho who had kidnapped him.

He went around the corner and stabbed the elevator button. He paced in front of it until he heard a ding and the doors slid open. As he entered the small box and pressed the "three" button, Dean realized he wasn't armed. He had been in lock up and then had made a dash over here thinking that Sam was safe in a hospital. But, hearing his brother's name listed at Sam Foster ratcheted up his already inflamed anxiety and now he was wishing he had retrieved some weapons from the trunk of the Impala. He probably wouldn't have gotten far with a shotgun in the hospital but a well-hidden .45 would have worked too.

Dean stepped onto the third floor, read the directional signs and headed towards Sam's room. He jogged more than walked as the urgency pushed him forward.

Dean opened the closed door then yelled out in rage when he saw Richard Gleason's spirit standing by the bed, his hands fluttering across Sam. As the ghost looked in his direction, Dean thought there were too many arms coming from the apparition but before he could make sense of that, Mark Foster rushed him. In a matter of moments, Foster found out that working out didn't equal fighting skill. Dean blocked the other man easily until finally, he put him down with a hard blow into Foster's already bruised face.

An unearthly cry filled the room and Dean found himself flying into the hallway. He slid across the floor stopping with a breathless grunt when he hit the wall. As he gathered his wits he saw the lunch cart sitting beside him. At eye level, on the middle shelf, lined up like little soldiers, he found a bunch of tiny salt shakers. He started to lever himself off the floor, grabbing a handful of the miniature containers. Shoved again by an invisible force, Dean slid several feet, hitting the nurse's station desk. He swept his arm out in a half circle, spraying the salt in an arc and was rewarded by an anguished scream.

Dean dragged himself off the floor, wincing at the new bruises. He made his way back to the lunch cart, scooped up some more of the salt shakers and went into Sam's room. He stepped around Mark Foster who remained unconscious near the end of the bed.

Sam lie unmoving, all pale skin marred by bruises. His hands were clenched into fists. His eyes were tightly closed. With hospital restraints secured between his elbows and wrists, he was tied to the bed rails and an IV ran into his hand.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean said as he released the restraint, noting that whoever tied him had avoided his damaged wrists. "It's okay now."

As Dean looked around for Gleason's spirit to return, he almost missed the soft response from his brother. Dean leaned close. "What was that?"

"Boat. Can we get off the boat?" Sam asked.

Dean gave it a moment's thought then pulled the needle out of the back of Sam's hand.

He returned to the hall to call for a nurse but before he could, something slammed into his back sending him sprawling. He flailed, arms pin wheeling as he slid across the smooth linoleum. Just as he skidded to a halt, he heard Sam's door bang shut. Rolling back on to his feet, Dean slammed into the door but it wasn't moving.

"Dean!" Bobby called out and Dean was happy to see him carrying a shotgun. Sheriff Carlisle was on his heels, .38 unholstered.

"Gleason's ghost jammed the door," Dean yelled.

He stepped out of the way as Bobby fired rock salt through the lock. The door swung open but before Dean could get back in he heard some shrieks from behind him. He and Bobby turned to see Gleason's spirit hovering near the nurse's station where several medical people were pointing.

Dean glanced back towards Sam; something shimmered near the bed then disappeared. From the hall, panicked voices drew his attention.

"It's Richard Gleason, isn't it?" someone said.

"But, it's a ghost," someone else said.

"Ghosts aren't real, it's a trick."

"And he's not dead, right?"

Dean watched as Gleason's spirit lurched away from them. In a flutter of wind that rustled hair and papers, he disappeared.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 22

Dean hadn't thought much about what killed Richard Gleason. In all the chaos of the last few days, that particular detail lacked importance. Sheriff Carlisle disagreed and it was the first thing he questioned Mark Foster about.

Foster admitted that his employer had suffered a heart attack two years earlier. He had left specific instructions on what to do in the event of his death and Foster had followed them.

No doctor or ambulance was called and Foster enlisted George Bentley's help to move Gleason to the guest house. They had laid him out on a bed and covered him in plastic, sealed the house up and blackened the windows. It was like a mausoleum except not at all like that.

Sheriff Carlisle refused to let Dean and Bobby on the property alone but he wanted no part of taking care of Gleason's body and ghost, so he stayed in the main house while they worked.

The guards, who worked at the estate, including Bentley, had been rounded up by the sheriff. The property was an active crime scene so, the grounds were empty when Dean and Bobby wrapped up the mostly whole body in plastic, carried it behind the guest house and salted it.

Gleason's spirit roared up with a vengeance but Dean was ready for him. He shot him fast with salt rounds while Bobby tossed a match on the decaying corpse. Gleason screamed out in rage as he burned. Dean shuddered at the creepiness of the whole thing.

Once the burn ended, Bobby accompanied the sheriff back to the jail. He wanted to know how Gleason's spirit remained steadfastly attached to Mark Foster. Dean headed to the hospital where Ellen waited with Sam.

Ellen had to catch a flight home but she agreed to stay until he arrived before leaving town.

Dean waved at the elderly volunteer as he passed her desk. Having Sam back and safe, having Gleason dealt with and knowing that Foster and his cronies were in jail had put him in a good mood.

As Dean entered Sam's room, he noted that Sam didn't look much better than the day before. He was still too pale. His eyes stayed at narrow slits when he gave a weak wave at Dean. Ellen, who was sitting beside the bed, turned to see him.

"Has Gleason been dispatched?" she asked.

"Nothing left but a crispy side dish," Dean answered.

"Good," Sam said then cleared his throat and said it again.

"You look better," Dean lied.

"Still drugged to hell," Sam said.

"The sheriff arrested your doctor. Foster bribed him to keep you under wraps."

"Figures," Sam said. He opened his eyes a little bit wider then snapped them closed.

"Still sensitive to light?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. Somebody said it'd clear up in another day or so. Said the swelling in my legs was going down too."

"Any guesses on when they might spring you?"

"Tomorrow," Sam said, firmly. "You're getting me out of here tomorrow."

Ellen raised her eyebrows and looked at Dean.

"We'll see, Sammy. Gotta go with the doctor on this."

"Don't start. I want out of here."

"Okay," Ellen interrupted. "I have a plane to catch."

Dean knew she still had a headache from the accident but she waved off any offers of help getting to the airport. He thanked her again for coming knowing that he and Bobby would still be in jail without her. He didn't want to think about where Sam would be if that was the case.

She kissed Sam on the forehead and hugged Dean. "Make sure you boys come to the Roadhouse and check in, all right?"

"We'll do it," Dean assured her.

After Ellen left, Dean settled into the chair she'd been using. He sprawled out with a relaxed sigh. Sam hadn't opened his eyes again and Dean wondered if he'd fallen asleep.

Dean startled when Sam spoke. "I mean it, Dean. Tomorrow."

"Sam, you're beat to hell. If they want to keep you…"

"No."

"What's the hurry? Bobby's house isn't going anywhere."

"I don't want to be here. Not here, not in this town."

"You're kind of surly."

"Surly? Really? Just get me out of here. You're usually the first one hitting the door so what's the problem?"

"I'm just saying…"

"No, I mean it. I'll get myself out if I have to."

"Jeez, dude, take it down a notch, will ya? Fine, tomorrow, it is. I just don't know why you're in such a hurry."

As the conversation progressed, Sam had lurched more and more forward until he was hovering a couple of inches above the pillow. He still kept his eyes mostly closed but the agitation bled through with every word. Once Dean agreed, he settled back, deflating like someone punctured his tire.

Dean let him sink into himself. For now, Sam needed rest and calm. Once they got on the road, Dean planned to find out what was going on with his brother. He worried that Sam blamed him for the spectacularly failed rescue at the estate. From finding Sam and then leaving him in the barn to getting captured by Foster's men, Dean had been less than useless. He wouldn't blame his brother for being pissed.

As Dean's mood plummeted with his thoughts, his cell rang.

"How's Sam doing?" Bobby asked.

"Cranky," Dean answered looking pointedly at his brother.

"Yeah, well, he's had a tough few days. And, uh, I hate to do this, but I need you back here at the sheriff's station."

"What's going on?"

Dean noticed Sam turning his head towards him. His eyes were still closed but he was listening.

"Foster finally spilled why Gleason's ghost was so attached to him. It's that necklace he's been wearing. The charms on it, they're yin and yang symbols, and apparently, Gleason's uncle had some kind of spell put on them that made it easier for his spirit to come back. When he died he passed it to Richard then Richard passed it to Foster."

"Yin and yang? That's all about duality and how opposites attract."

"No, not attract, it's how things that are supposed to be opposite are actually connected like light and dark, male and female…"

"Life and death," Dean said.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked, agitation plain in his tone. Dean didn't answer his brother as he listened to Bobby.

"Right," Bobby continued. "But, here's the thing, if the necklace is the connection…"

"Then Gleason isn't gone."

"Neither of them is gone, Dean. They were both using the necklace to stay here."

Dean darted to his feet. "I'm on my way."

He disconnected and tucked the phone into his pocket.

"What happened?" Sam demanded.

"The connection between Foster and Gleason is the necklace Foster wears. It's got a spell on it and we think that both the Gleason's might still be here."

"That would," Sam hesitated. "That would explain some things. Two spirits. It would explain…"

Dean put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "I know. I think I saw both of them in here yesterday. I'm going to the police station to help Bobby burn it. Just sit tight, I'll be back."

"Dean, I should go. I should be there."

"Sorry, Sammy, not this time."

Dean left the room knowing he'd disappointed his brother but also knowing that he was right. Sam was half-blind and half-crippled and worse than that, he was the focus of the spirits' activities. There was no way he could help burn the necklace.

Chapter 23

A warm sun and soft breeze followed Dean as he drove back to the police station. He noticed the pleasant weather but just barely. Instead he was thinking about the signs he missed that pointed to a second spirit. When he burst into Sam's hospital room, he remembered thinking there were too many arms for one man but he hadn't taken a moment to figure out why. When Bobby shot the door open and he looked into Sam's room again he caught a glimpse of one apparition but a second later, the civilians were pointing out Richard Gleason. Those two things alone should have been enough to make him realize that Charles was still present.

Dean parked the car out front and jogged across the sidewalk, shotgun in hand and pistol at his back. He pulled open the front door ready to call out for Bobby when chaos erupted.

Dean ducked as a chair flew at him. He crouched down noting that a young woman and one of the deputies were huddled under the closest desk.

"Stay there," he said. The deputy nodded as he pulled the crying woman closer to him.

A sharp breeze blew the contents of a desktop across the room with a small lamp exploding as it hit the wall.

Dean looked around for the spirits knowing one or both had to be close. So far they were acting like poltergeists, invisible and destructive. He moved further into the room then jumped back, falling on his butt when a spirit appeared within inches of him. Dean recognized him from photos but this was his first real contact with Sam's original tormenter, Charlie Glass. He looked surprisingly like his nephew except for his severely shorn hair.

Dean brought the shotgun around but before he could fire Charlie disappeared.

Another desktop exploded on Dean's left and he felt the debris hit his side. Something stung his cheek but he kept moving.

"Bobby!" he yelled.

Instead of an answering call, an explosion sent Dean tumbling. The floor rumbled beneath him and he heard some screams that probably came from the woman under the desk. A heartbeat later there was no sound except his own breath. Dust and paper debris floated past him like a mini tornado.

"You all right?" Bobby's voice reached out through the dust and Dean looked up at him.

The older man held out a hand. Dean let himself get pulled off the floor.

"Yeah. You?"

Bobby coughed before he answered. "A few scrapes, maybe a sprained wrist, I guess, but, yeah, I'm good. Pretty sure Carlisle has a concussion."

"I thought you were waiting for me," Dean said though he wasn't angry.

"Spirits had a different idea. They seemed real intent on keeping me from burning that necklace."

"But, you got it done."

"Oh, yeah. Blew up the incinerator in the cellar, but, yeah, it's done."

"Can we come out now?" A voice asked.

Dean and Bobby turned to find the deputy poking his head above the desk.

"Sure thing, it's safe," Bobby answered.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 24

An hour later, Dean and Bobby were sitting in Sam's room again. Sheriff Carlisle had thanked them for their help but he seemed relieved when they said they'd be leaving town.

Dean had the television remote and had landed on a pre-season baseball game. He had taken the chair near the window while Bobby had settled on the opposite side of the bed.

When they first arrived back at the hospital, they answered all of Sam's questions and once he seemed satisfied, the three of them had relaxed. Dean clutched a can of Coke wishing he could have beer while Bobby drank cranberry juice. Tired and nursing bruises, Dean was happy just to sit there watching over Sam and yelling at the TV even though he had no interest in either of the teams that were playing.

Sam shifted in the bed. He squeezed his eyes closed, his forehead scrunching up like an accordion.

"Hey, hey, you all right?" Dean asked.

"Scraped my leg," Sam answered, wincing with the words. "And these damn drugs are still messing me up."

"Try to sleep it off, Sam. The crap they pumped into you yesterday is still floating around in there."

"I know. Feels like I'm twisting around on a roller coaster every time I move my head too fast. And I can't keep my eyes open or I might as well jab myself with pokers and be done with it."

"Wow, graphic." Dean pulled the chair closer to the bed and settled back. "Just relax, all right? Go to sleep. I'm not leaving and Bobby's buying pizza later so there's nothing to keep you awake for now."

Dean ignored the surprised glare that Bobby shot his way.

Sam rubbed his forehead and the stress lines smoothed under his hand. Dean watched as his body started to settle into the mattress until finally his breath evened out into sleep.

Chapter 25

Sam stretched out to his full height with his feet reaching past the end of the bed and his arms brushing the wall behind him. His ribs pulled with the action but he ignored the pain for the moment. Just as he did every time he woke, he opened his eyes appreciating the fact that needles didn't jam their way into his skull. He smiled, just a little, relieved that the light sensitivity had abated.

He brought his arms down and shortened his spine enough so his body was fully back in bed. The drift of a sheet and blanket over his legs caused him to wince but he thought his skin must be healing. Some doctor had dropped in with the news that there were no broken bones in his extremities. The doctor had assured Sam that once the swelling and bruising healed, he would be walking normal with no residual problems.

The broken ribs would also mend. Sam had dealt with that problem often enough that he wasn't worried. He knew a cracked bone in his chest could mean infection, a punctured lung and other nasty issues, but for him, it had always meant a few weeks of discomfort and nothing more. Apparently, that would be the case this time as well.

Sam reached for the cup of water on the tray hovering near his bed and drank it down quickly then realized he was hungry, really hungry. He remembered eating some hospital lunch but judging from the sun streaming warmly through the window, that had been the day before. He thought Dean had mentioned that Bobby would bring them dinner but either that plan fell through or Sam had slept through it. And speaking of Dean and Bobby, Sam glanced around the room, finding a folded up pizza box in the trash, but no people hovering around him.

The uncomfortable image of finding Mark Foster instead of Dean in his room sent Sam's hand reaching under the pillow for a knife Dean had left with him. But, as soon as his hand closed on the handle, Sam remembered that Mark was in jail and both Richard and Charles Gleason had been sent to hell. He let out a shaky breath, irritated with himself for letting his imagination run away.

With the knowledge that he was hungry and thirsty, Sam also realized he needed the bathroom. He ignored the sobering idea that thinking of his captors scared the piss out of him.

Instead he set about getting out of bed and to the toilet. Hopefully, his legs had healed enough to hold him. He wouldn't know until he tried. Pushing the blankets gingerly off, he noted the white bandages interspersed between purple and blue skin. If it wasn't his own legs he was looking at, he probably would have turned away in disgust. The chill air sent goose bumps skittering along his heated skin adding to the general throbbing but his bladder reasserted its need so he pressed on. Depending on his hips for motion he swung around to get his legs on the floor. The movement sent a sharp pain up through his torso and Sam curled into himself for a moment to ride it out.

Sam scooted to the edge of the bed until his feet touched the floor. With no socks on, the cool tile startled him a little. He flexed his toes then settled flat footed. He scooted a bit further then pushed off with his arms. Agonizing shafts of pain shot through his legs and wrists. He gasped and stumbled but caught the rolling tray with one hand and the edge of the bed with the other. The tray rolled backward but didn't slide away and with a focused effort he gained his balance. Trembling and panting with the effort, he stopped to gulp air into his lungs.

"What are you doing?" Bobby's voice greeted him. A moment later the older man had a firm grasp on Sam's arm.

"Bathroom," Sam said, hoping it didn't sound as stupid to Bobby as it did to him.

"The call button broken? You could've killed yourself doing this alone."

"I can walk," Sam insisted.

"Yeah, sure looks like it. Come on, let me help you."

"Bobby." The tone sounded whiney even to Sam's ears.

"I know, I know, let me just get you there. Being self-conscious around me is a wasted effort, you should know that by now."

Bobby waited until Sam steadied then guided him into the small bathroom. It was slow and tiring but finally, Bobby left him leaning on the sink next to the toilet.

"There you go. If you're going to fall, call out. If I hear a ruckus, I'm coming in. Got it?"

"Yeah, Bobby, thanks."

Sam used the sink to move around then used the stainless steel supports, made for hospitalized invalids everywhere, to get him where he needed to be. The whole process took longer than he expected.

When he was done he leaned against the sink once more in order to shuffle towards the door. He found that moving loosened up the muscles and skin. Going back towards his room was easier than getting inside the bathroom. He shifted his balance in order to reach the door handle but as he turned the knob, his center shifted. He toppled through the door, fighting not to fall as he stumbled into the rolling tray. He hit it hard then twisted backward. There was no stopping now as he rocked back on his heels with a yell. He thought he heard Bobby yell out too. As he pin wheeled backward he hit something else however the hard lines of his brother's body didn't stop the momentum. When their tumbling, out of control flailing ended, Dean grunted as Sam flattened him against the nearest wall.

"Awesome," Dean spit out with surprised annoyance lacing his tone.

Bobby had joined them but he was chuckling as Dean pushed Sam forward and they wrapped Sam up between them and manhandled him back to the bed. Once he was settled safely with his legs dangling over the edge and his hands fisted into the bedding, Dean laughed too. The only one who was not amused was Sam.

"So glad I could pick up your day," Sam said.

Neither Dean nor Bobby commented on that but they did twist up their facial expressions trying to hide their mirth.

"You all right, Sam?" Dean asked.

"I'm wonderful."

"It could've been worse. What if I hadn't shown up?"

"Yeah, well, if nothing else, I know it can always be worse."

"Oh, now, don't be like that," Dean teased.

"Whatever, man, just, did you sign the paperwork or what?" Sam asked, irritably.

"You mean to leave?"

"What else would I mean?"

"Don't be stupid, you look like hell."

"That's nice, Dean, really. Love the support."

"Seriously, Sam, you're not even walking yet. Just give it another day then we'll blow out of here, I promise."

"Damn it. Maybe this could be up to me, what do you think, Dean? You think I can be a grown up for two freakin' seconds and leave when I want?"

"Hey, Sam, take it easy," Bobby said. "We're just trying to help."

Acutely aware of how anemic he must seem in the hospital gown with bare feet dangling, Sam said, "I know that, Bobby. I do and I'm sorry. But, I need to get out of here and I need you two to remember I'm twenty three, not three and not fourteen, either." He turned to Dean. "Just go sign the papers, or distract a nurse and get me a wheelchair."

Dean threw up his hands dramatically. "Fine. After all, why would we stand in the way of all this maturity?"

Dean stalked out of the room. Sam dared a glance at Bobby but just found the older man facing away from him in front of the window.

Despite an overwhelming exhaustion creeping through his mind and limbs, Sam remained sitting on the edge of the bed contemplating whether there were clothes for him someplace. He had been stripped of his own clothes and dressed in the underwear and t-shirt shortly after being captured. He had been unconscious during the process and couldn't decide if the creepiness of their actions outweighed the blessing of not being awake for it.

"Hey, uh, Bobby, did Dean bring any clothes for me?"

Bobby turned around. "Yeah. He left them in the car. I imagine he's getting them."

"Look, I know he's trying to take care of me but…"

"Sam, your brother near lost his mind looking for you. It almost killed him he had to leave you behind in that barn. You'd be doing him a favor if you let him look out for you now."

"I understand that but, this is my life. I need to control it."

Bobby nodded. "Okay."

"I mean it."

"I said I understood, Sam, no need to beat me with it."

Sam didn't have anything left to say and was saved from an awkward silence when Dean reappeared. He carried a bag in one hand and a clipboard in the other. He dropped the bag beside Sam.

"Your clothes."

"Thanks," Sam said, feeling embarrassed and guilty after his outburst.

"I'll be in the hall," Bobby said, making a clearly deliberate exit.

Dean sat down in the chair by the bed and started filling out the form on the clipboard. He didn't ask any questions but Sam would have been surprised if he did. Dean knew everything about him.

Sam picked up the bag. He dug around to find the underwear. Feeling the pulsing throb through his legs, he decided to do as much as he could while sitting. As soon as he bent over to get his legs through the proper holes he realized his next problem. His ribs sang out with pain. He winced and sat back.

"You know you don't have to do that alone, Sam."

Sam just looked at his brother. He didn't want to ask for help.

"I can do it."

"Now, you're just being stupid. Look, you have to let yourself out of survival mode, okay?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You were held captive for days but you're safe now. You can let your guard down. You can ask for help."

"Like I was safe nine years ago when Dad said it was over?" The vehemence of his words surprised him. He hadn't been thinking about Dad or the past. Had he?

Dean set the clipboard on the table next to him. He stood up and leaned against the rolling tray, clasping his hands together.

"I'm sorry, I don't know why I said that," Sam said.

"I'm sorry we didn't do a better job of following up. Dad and I did look for an accomplice. Pastor Jim and Bobby too. We just couldn't find anything."

"This isn't about Dad or what happened before."

"Then what is it about?"

Sam looked around the hospital room with the antiseptic smell. He remembered the people, orderlies or nurses or whoever, taking his arms by force and tying him down. He could still imagine the sensation of the needle slipping into his skin while the doctor ordered drugs that Sam had never heard of and didn't want. He couldn't get anyone to listen to him.

"I don't want to talk here," Sam said. "Just, I'll talk to you, just not here."

Dean nodded as he straightened up. "Come on. Let's get some decent clothes on you."

Dean slid the boxers over his legs then helped him stand while Sam managed to pull them the rest of the way. They followed the same procedure with the jeans. Sam regretted the pants as they scraped against sensitive skin but he held his complaint. He sat back down and slipped off the hospital gown.

As soon as he saw Dean's expression he remembered that it was the first time Dean had seen his bruised and abused torso.

"I should've killed Foster," Dean growled.

"Yeah, like a week ago. Could've avoided the whole thing." Sam meant it as a joke but Dean didn't laugh.

He helped Sam pull the blue t-shirt over his head. When he held up the over shirt, Sam shook his head so it went back in the bag.

"There's a wheelchair in the hall," Dean said. "I'm not carrying your overgrown self out of here."

Dean disappeared only to come back with the chair. Bobby followed him in. Dean handed Bobby the clipboard.

"Let's go, kiddo," he said.

Sam leaned heavily on him. Despite having been through the pain of standing a number of times now, Sam was still surprised by it. It felt like his skin and muscles were working independently while one burned with the scrape and pull of his jeans, the other cramped with spasms from thigh to ankle. By the time he was seated, sweat dotted his face and his legs were trembling.

"How are you doing?" Dean asked and Sam was grateful he didn't press him again to stay in the hospital.

"Good. I'm good."

Dean pushed the wheelchair into the hall and towards the elevator. Bobby dropped the clipboard on the nurse's desk. Sam recognized the nurse as Miss Gayle, the one who had called Doctor Langstrom and started the ball rolling for him to get tied up and drugged. She didn't look at him at all but handed Bobby a white paper bag.

"The directions for the medications are printed and in the bag. If you have any questions, please call Doctor Schaeffer, he's been assigned to Mr. Foster's care."

Sam stiffened at hearing the last name. Apparently, his records hadn't been updated or Nurse Helpful hadn't bothered to check.

"It's not Foster," Dean said but didn't give her another name. Sam figured it didn't matter since there was no chance they would be calling Doctor Schaeffer or returning to the hospital anyway.

Getting the rest of the way out of the building, into the Impala and then to a hotel room passed uneventfully but by the time, Dean and Bobby had manhandled him into a bed, Sam was exhausted.

Dean rummaged through the bag of pills sent by the hospital and offered antibiotics and pain meds. Sam refused to take anything but the amoxicillin saying he'd been drugged enough.

Chapter 25

Several hours after Sam slipped into sleep, Dean flipped through the eighteen channels of the motel television reflexively. He wasn't really watching anything, just spending a couple of minutes on something that caught his interest only to get bored and start clicking again.

He and Bobby ate lunch together using the small desk as a table. They spent a few hours searching the internet for a hunt though neither one planned to go on a job for a week or two, at least. Still, Bobby liked to keep in touch with strange events so he could contact a hunter to deal with it if needed.

They ate dinner together at the same small desk. Then Dean cleared away the trash and Bobby introduced a deck of cards. They played poker for a couple of hours but Bobby soon tired of losing and Dean was having trouble concentrating which irritated Bobby even more.

They finally called it a night and Bobby went to his own room to sleep. While it wasn't an adjoining room, it was the next door over so if Dean needed help with Sam, Bobby would hear him knock on the wall. Dean didn't expect any problems but it was comforting to have someone nearby.

The motel room screamed mediocre and old, just like most of their rooms did. Plain, white walls, two queen sized beds and junk furniture filled the main room. A simple bathroom with toilet, sink and tub was the second room and that was the extent of their current palace. Dean wished he had spent less money entertaining that bartender, Sheila? Shyla? Shirley?, whoever, and more time playing pool or poker. They could use some extra cash and maybe they could have stayed somewhere less likely to give Sam a disease.

Dean rarely dwelled on that kind of thinking. They had never needed much and their father taught them to live a minimalist lifestyle. Most of the time crappy motels suited Dean just fine. When he thought about wanting a home, it wasn't about the house and the things that went with it. What he wanted was permanence and security, not stuff. But, as Dean watched his brother try to sleep on a ten year old mattress with a musty odor lingering through the room, it made him want more.

Bored and discontented, Dean turned off the television. He didn't undress. He found that when he felt restless, he slept better if he wore his street clothes. That extra level of readiness let him relax.

Dean and Bobby had peeled off Sam's jeans after the drugs knocked him out. They both knew the rough fabric had to be uncomfortable against all the welts, bruises and broken skin. Dean covered him with a sheet and they left him to sleep. Before Bobby left for the night, he drew a blanket over Sam too saying that it was getting chilly in the room.

Dean checked Sam's forehead for fever before finally settling into his own bed. Sam was sprawled out on his back, his whole body spread out across the mattress. He hadn't made any noise or movements that might suggest a nightmare which was a relief. They were both prone to them but when Sam latched on to something in his subconscious, he hung on to it for days, if not weeks. Hopefully, this wouldn't be one of those times.

Reluctantly, though he couldn't explain why, Dean crawled under the covers. He lay awake for a long time watching Sam sleep.

A few hours later when Dean darted up in bed, his body sticky with cold sweat, he cursed out loud. In the next heartbeat he remembered where he was and looked across the space towards his brother who was looking back at him.

"Hey, Sammy, you all right?'

"Whas' wrong?" Sam asked, his words slurred from drowsiness.

"Nothing. Nightmare. Nothing," Dean answered quickly.

"Whas'about?"

Dean smiled at that despite his racing heart. "Don't worry about it. You should go back to sleep."

"No, really, y'can tell me."

"Go back to sleep, Sam."

"Tell me."

Dean rolled his eyes. He pushed himself up to lean against the wooden headboard and rubbed his face. He was half-hoping when he looked at the other bed, he'd find that Sam had passed out again but no such luck. Still lying on his back, his head was turned towards Dean.

"It was leaving you, not getting you out of there, Sam. I can't believe I did that. I just left you."

"No choice. Told ya t'go."

"There's always a choice. I should have fought our way out of there."

Clearly Sam was rallying because his words were becoming clearer. "Killed a bunch of humans? Maybe got killed doing it. How would that've helped?"

"Doesn't matter how you say it. I left you alone. Hell, I screwed up the whole rescue."

A long silence filled the space between them. Dean figured Sam agreed and didn't want to say it. But, he should blame him and Dean wished he'd just get it over with.

"You saved me," Sam said, finally. "I knew you would, kept me fighting, cuz I knew."

Dean shook his head, knowing he shouldn't be putting this on Sam right now. "I don't think I can let myself off that easy. I keep seeing you in that barn, you know, in my head. And I turned tail."

"No, you didn't. You left but I knew you'd be back. We've done it before, with other people. Sometimes you have to."

"Not with us, Sam. We don't leave each other behind."

"Thinking about you and Dad kept me alive so stop beating yourself up. It's stupid."

Dean glared at him. "Well, thank you, Mr. Sensitive."

"I mean it." Another pause split between them and then Sam said, "Can you grab me the good drugs? My legs are killing me."

"Yeah, hang on." Dean got out of bed and rummaged around the dark room. He found the hospital bag on the desk and clicked on the small lamp that was there. After his eyes adjusted to the new light, he read the two bottles and found the percocet. He shook two of them into his hand, grabbed the leftover bottle of water and brought them to his brother.

"Here you go," Dean said, noting that Sam had thrown his arm over his eyes.

"Eyes still bothering you?"

"I guess," Sam admitted. He propped himself up enough to take the pills then flopped back down.

Dean returned to the desk and shut off the light.

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "I have to go back to sleep, I just, I don't want you to blame yourself when you did the right thing."

"Okay," Dean relented as he sat on the edge of his bed and watched Sam settle. "Go to sleep. I'll think about what you said, all right? That good enough for now?"

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Sam answered, his voice growing heavy again.

A moment later a soft snore came from the other bed and Dean sighed.


	12. Chapter 12

Notes: This is it. The final chapter. Thank you again to those who have read, followed, or made a this story a favorite. I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

Chapter 26

By mid-afternoon the next day Sam and Dean were awake and arguing. Sam recognized all the signs in himself that said he was the problem but he wasn't willing to admit it. Tense, in pain, frustrated by his limitations and irritated with his brother's hovering, Sam wondered why he didn't just explode.

The warmth he felt towards Dean in the middle of the night had been replaced by all sorts of negativity, most prominently, annoyance. But, it wasn't just that and Sam knew it. He was angry at himself and lashing out by being completely unreasonable. He saw the stress lines in Dean's posture, could read the strain on his face and knew that Dean was trying not to lose his temper. Somehow that just made Sam's mood worse which made him push harder against his brother's resolve to be patient.

Sam was propped up in bed with his back to the head board and his legs stretched out in front of him. He wore gym shorts that he didn't even remember that he had and figured they were a leftover from Stanford. He discovered upon waking that he could move easier. Pain still radiated from his limbs and torso but it was tolerable as long as he stayed careful. He didn't know if it was the drugs or healing but either way, it was a relief to be able to hobble into the bathroom without wanting to scream.

That bit of progress did nothing to improve his attitude though. And the pain meds were still making him fuzzy enough to be a distraction.

"Did they have to send out for it?" Sam asked when Dean returned with food from a convenience store. They were on a budget for the moment so ninety-nine cent hotdogs, chips and soda were lunch.

Dean ignored his snarky comment and set the bag on the desk.

"What do you want on your dogs?" he asked.

"I don't care. Ketchup, whatever."

"Onions?"

"Did I say onions?" Sam said.

Dean picked up the desk chair and slammed it next to the bed to get it out of the way.

"That's it, I'm done," Dean yelled.

"Done with what?" Sam yelled back.

"Done with this spoiled princess crap. You got something on your mind then spit it out."

"Fine. I can make my own food. What the hell do I need with a nursemaid anyway?"

"Sam!" Dean stopped, clearly shutting his words off.

He shook his head and walked outside, slamming the door behind him.

Sam shifted on the bed. Knowing he had finally gotten the reaction he'd been pushing for deflated his anger. It didn't feel right to abuse Dean the way he had been and regret flooded him, followed quickly by guilt. He cursed himself as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Taking a moment to breathe through the motion, he put his feet on the floor and pushed up. Grunting softly, he used the nearby wall to keep himself steady. The head rush from being vertical forced his eyes closed.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, interrupting Sam's concentrated effort to not pass out.

Before Sam could form an answer, Dean maneuvered him back to the bed where he perched on the edge. Sam rubbed his face, hoping to erase some of the dizziness. It didn't help but time seemed to and he was finally able to keep a clear thought.

"I warned you about the drugs, Alice," Dean said.

"Wow, 70's addiction reference. I'm impressed."

"I do what I can."

Dean sat on the other bed so now he was behind Sam. Sam appreciated the space because he was having a hard time saying what needed to be said.

"What's going on with you?" Dean asked.

Oddly, the aroma of the cooked hotdogs resting across the room took that moment to get Sam's attention. His stomach growled but he ignored it.

"I'm sorry I've been such a jerk," Sam said.

"Yeah, well, why are you? I know you're in pain but, it's not a novelty for us."

"No." Sam wished that Bobby hadn't already headed back to South Dakota. A distraction would be welcome.

"Can I just say I'm sorry and try to knock it off without the hand holding?" Sam asked.

"Hey, you know me, I don't need the whole sharing thing to get through. That's your thing. But, whatever is eating you needs to come out."

"Look, Dean, I know you want to help and I appreciate it. Really, I do. But, I can't…I don't think…I'm not sure I can…damn it."

"All right, let me see if I can come up with the words, college boy. You got kidnapped and molested by ghosts…twice. It scared you and you don't know how to deal with it. And now you're pretty much helpless because of that son of a bitch and his baseball bat, so that's making you anxious too."

"It was a stick."

"Sammy…"

"Okay, all right. Yeah, I guess so. I don't want to be all girly about this. It's not like it was even real touching, it was just…unsettling… and I couldn't stop it…again. Kidnapped again. Captured and…whatever…again. I just…I remember Dad being disappointed that I let myself get caught nine years ago and here we are. Again."

"Whoa, whoa, just wait. Stop right there. Dad was not disappointed in you. He was mad at himself for not watching out better. But, he didn't blame you."

"You're wrong, Dean. The first thing he asked when he rescued me was, how I got caught."

Dean appeared at Sam's side. He sat down near the end of the bed, not too close but close enough.

"Sam, you were messed up after and we protected you from a lot of our fights, but all he talked about was how he'd let you get hurt, how he didn't protect you. He and I almost came to blows over it."

Sam frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You were a kid. It was his job to make sure nothing happened. If I'd been in town…"

"You can't protect me every second, not then, not now."

"I thought he'd take care of you. He went on a job and didn't notice you were missing. That was a problem."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know you two fought about it."

"Doesn't matter now. I'm just saying you were too young to stop all the bad that we were getting into."

"I had training."

"Sure. But, you were still fourteen, all skinny and awkward. I know you fought back but against a grown man who probably had supernatural help…there wasn't much chance of you winning."

Sam met Dean's eyes. "Then how do you explain this time?"

"I don't know. You haven't told me what happened yet."

That was true. He hadn't shared much of anything of the last few days. The injuries, the malnutrition and dehydration had spoken for him. Dean had seen the ghost hands all over him in the hospital so that had been revealed. But, the details of the bus ride with a scared kid, getting caught and the weird obsession by Foster with getting him to agree to be "trained" for Gleason, none of that had been spoken out loud.

Sam turned his attention to the wall. "I met this kid on the bus and he told me about the pervert ghost. It sounded too familiar so I got off the bus in Cayuga and started checking around."

"Gary Darcangelo?"

"You found him?"

"Yeah. He wasn't any help though. Scared to death and hiding with his parents."

"He's just a kid, Dean."

Dean nodded. "I know."

"Anyway, I, uh, went to the library and found the Gleason's which included a picture of Charles. I got jumped there, uh, behind the library building by Foster and a couple of his goons. I actually held my own at first. You would've been impressed."

"Impressed? Not likely," Dean smiled as he teased him.

"But, uh, Gleason decided to get involved. He threw me into a bush and they dragged me from where I landed, put a canvas bag over my head and shoved me into a van. They shot me up with something, I don't know what, but I went out pretty fast."

Dean shook his head. "You're an idiot."

Sam recoiled at the comment. "Excuse me? It took three guys and a spirit to take me down and all you can say is, I'm an idiot."

"Yeah, Sammy, because it took three guys and a spirit. You're not Superman, dude. If that's what you're worrying about, it's not worth it."

"I guess," Sam said.

Sam gathered his thoughts. He knew it was a long time but he wasn't sure if he wanted to say the rest. His brother stayed quiet, fidgeting a little bit because Dean couldn't stay still but he wasn't pushing Sam to hurry.

"It's the helplessness," he finally said. "The hopelessness, I guess, that's getting to me." He stopped, needing another moment. He felt Dean's eyes on him.

"It seemed like every time I thought that it might not get worse, it did. I wanted out of there so bad and I couldn't make it happen. I couldn't stop any of it. Not Foster, not Gleason, none of it. I just…I felt like that scared kid again and I haven't in a long time. You know? Felt like that."

Dean didn't speak right away. Sam half expected to hear that he shouldn't be such a girl. He curled his hands into fists keeping his gaze on the wall.

"Ya know, uh, we get beat up a lot," Dean said. "We get trapped sometimes. We've both been tied up and knocked around and, well, it kind of goes with the territory."

So, Dean did think he was just being whiney and weak. "I know," Sam said.

"But, this was different," Dean continued. He stood up, putting his back to Sam for a moment then facing him again. "First, it was days, not hours. Second, the level of abuse took on a new dimension with the Gleason's being pervs and all. And third, it was a repeat of something bad from when you were a kid."

Dean put himself between the wall and the bed, standing a little to Sam's right. "The thing is," Dean said. "This was different. I'd be worried if you weren't a little screwed up from it."

"I'm okay," Sam said. "I am."

"You will be. It's okay if you're not right now."

Sam shrugged but the pull on his ribs made him regret it.

"I need to know something though," Dean said. "We never talked about this after Charles Gleason took you but, I think maybe it's time."

Sam knew what was coming but asked anyway. "What?"

"Richard Gleason was Glass's partner."

"Nephew," Sam corrected.

"Yeah, right. And his ghost got too familiar with you."

Sam nodded in agreement.

"How familiar did Gleason get when you were fourteen?"

Sam shook his head. "He didn't."

"He didn't?"

"No. His uncle's spirit was the only thing that…did anything. It wasn't good but it wasn't human."

"You're sure?"

"Dean, I would know."

"And you'd tell me?"

"Not much point in keeping it a secret now," Sam lied. There was no way he was going to go back to that time or what happened and no way he was going to take Dean with him.

"All right then."

"All right," Sam agreed.

Dean pushed off the wall and grabbed two of the hotdogs from where he'd left them. They were cold but he smeared ketchup on them anyway and brought them over to Sam. Sam set them on the end stand and scooted back up on the bed to get settled. Dean threw a bag of chips across the room and Sam let them land near him. He didn't think his ribs would enjoy a hand reach for the catch. A bottle of Coke followed the chips.

"All set?" Dean asked.

"Five star service."

"Hey, at least my throws were good."

Sam ate all the food and sucked down the drink. He was still savoring the freedom to eat after the few days without anything. But, he grew sleepy soon after he finished and scrunched down for a nap.

Sam figured they would leave the next morning to drive to South Dakota. It might take an extra day because he didn't think he'd be able to sit in the car for a straight drive through. But, that was okay, it would give him a chance to work through the emotional crap before seeing Bobby again.

In a week or so they could drive back to upstate New York because there was still the Big Foot mystery and Sam really wanted to find out what was going on.


End file.
